


Aporia

by PsiCygni



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Drabble, F/M, First Time, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsiCygni/pseuds/PsiCygni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aporia (n): an expression of real or pretended doubt or uncertainty especially for rhetorical effect; a logical impasse or contradiction; especially a radical contradiction in the import of a text or theory that is seen in deconstruction as inevitable</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forelsket

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of seven drabbles that were spurred by a prompt on tumblr and written as an (at sometimes loose) interpretation of the definition of the chapter title.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forelsket - The word for when you start to fall in love. A euphoria in a sense; the beginning of love

In typical fashion, every class has one student who performs well above the rest. As it is, Cadet Uhura appears particularly perturbed that it is not her.

Again, she examines the exam he distributed only moments ago in class, as if continued scrutiny will return a different assessment than he already provided. “But who scored higher?”

“I cannot share that information with you,” Spock says, though this should be self-evident.

“Ok, how much better were their marks?”

“You may ask that of your classmates, but not of me.” The tone he employs would have any other human cadet unable to meet his eyes. Uhura simply stares back at him from across his desk.

He determines at some length that waiting for her to respond is, apparently, fruitless.

His hand spread on the surface of his desk, he says, “The intention of assessing your work is to serve as a benchmark of your ability to grasp the course material, not a venue to compete against other students.” He waits for a moment before adding, “Perhaps your time would be better spent in study than in my office hours.”

Her eyes narrow slightly at this advice before she gives him a single nod and leaves his office without another word.

When her footsteps have faded down the hall, he brings up her record. She is not his best student, and considering the scores of students above her in his class, she will not outcompete their standing. Still, she is… intriguing.

…

“Sir?” he hears. “Sir, just a moment, excuse me, Commander?”

It is raining. Hard. He has brought neither an umbrella nor a suitable jacket and while in retrospect both were a poor choice, he is currently more concerned with the state of his socks and the hours that will elapse until he is at his leisure to return to his quarters than he is his failure to sufficiently check the forecast.

“Cadet?” he asks, blinking against the water dripping into his eyes. From one of the other paths that bisect the Academy quad, Uhura rushes toward him.

“Sir, for the midterm-“

He holds his hand up and she stops so abruptly that her mouth is still open. If she wishes to ask him if the material covered in the most recent class will be on the midterm, he does not have patience for that, especially when accosted in this weather, meters from any available shelter.

“I believe I was clear on the exam’s content, Cadet.”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s just that-“ She shakes her head, rain splattering from the ends of her hair onto her shoulder. “I really don’t understand the underlying theory behind ethnographic methods we went over in last week’s class. On the quiz yesterday, I realized I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer and the exam is tomorrow and-“

“-Cadet.” Only weeks into the semester and already he is well accustomed to her ability to, given a chance, build up what he has heard humans term ‘a head of steam’. He is entirely more interested in a haven from San Fransisco’s inclement weather than listening to whatever justification Uhura has constructed. “You will perform acceptably.”

“It’s not-“ She grabs the strap of her bag where it hangs from her shoulder and then apparently changes her mind over where to place her hand, because she crosses her arm over her stomach instead. She takes a deep breath and straightens slightly. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I cared only about my grades and fine is not-”

Again she shakes her head before running the back of her hand under her nose and then through the water on her cheeks. Behind her is an awning over the entrance to the engineering building. His meeting that he is now no longer early for is in the opposite direction.

“Cadet,” he says again and she sniffs once, hard. In his boots, water pools. “I would not trouble yourself.”

Any more, he cannot say. On his desk in his office sits her quiz, both with it’s correct answers, and the midterm exam he completed just moments ago, which does not contain questions in the area of her concern.

She does not appear satisfied, though she finally nods.

He searches for what more he can tell her and settles for simply nodding in return before hurrying towards his meeting.

He is already late, and made more so by the wind whipping rain against him, though upon his arrival to his destination, he finds that he is hardly the only one delayed by the unpleasant weather. Half of the officers scheduled to attend have yet to arrive, and the few that have are engaged in idle conversation with each other. Dripping, he settles his belongings on the table and attempts to adjust his clothing as to make it more bearable to focus on the tasks in front of him.

Yet, despite his attempts, the cold and damp and unsettled nature of his arrival continually turn his thoughts from the meeting that has yet to begin.

Surely, other students in Uhura’s class have similar concerns, though perhaps none are quite so willing to chase after him on a day such as this. There is, then, an argument to be made that they too are suffering from similar distraction, and that in the interest in ensuring that they spend their time focused on their preparation for their exam and not on needless anxieties, he takes advantage of the lull in his day to power his padd on and, wiping away the damp that covers the screen, posts the grades he has already nearly finished collating.

…

The message arrives at 22:47 on a Saturday evening. When his padd pings in receipt of it, Spock turns down the music he was listening to, a new composition by T'Leia that was released only the day prior. He shuts the recording off entirely after he reads Cadet Uhura’s note the first time and examines it more closely the second time through, leaning forward on his couch and holding his padd closer as if to better make sense of what she wrote.

A narrative analysis of Romulan histories. An interesting choice for the final paper. And not surprising that she cannot locate the needed sources, as many have not been translated from the original High Romulan.

In truth, including the issues of access that she has already identified, she likely does not possess sufficient time to both obtain the needed resources and find a translator, which he begins to write to her, along with a recommendation that she reconsider her topic when he stops himself and reads her message through for a third time.

She asked after where she might find the needed papers, not help with reading them. Curious. It would be illogical to answer a question she has not posed, despite his desire to bring to her attention the difficulties of translation and the reality that she must consider this. Of course, while her marks have not elevated her to the head of her class - no matter that she has drawn significantly closer - she is not unintelligent. The opposite, in fact, which she proves weekly, holding lively and at times heated debates with her classmates. More than once, students who not only outscore her but also outrank her, years closer to their graduation than she is, have capitulated under her unrelenting arguments, which she is often able to formulate before her classmate has finished speaking. It is quite a sight.

He wakes the screen of his padd when it begins to dim. If she has not already realized the challenge she has set for herself, she will soon be aware of it, and while he does not have the needed access to the documents she requires, he can obtain it for her. He also has a number of other sources that may be of use in her analysis that he can send her on Monday morning.

Though she is, apparently, currently working, no matter that it is a day that most cadets spend in leisure pursuits. And he is not occupied. He crosses to his desk and beings sorting through a stack of padds there, setting two aside and then a third.

It is some time before he remembers to turn his music back on, and longer still until he finally rests for the night, a set of notes left out on his desk for the next day.

…

On two separate occasions, she expresses that she does not have to occupy his time during his office hours and does not intend to detract from his availability for other students. Twice, he assures her that there is no problem. Both times, she sits back into her chair with an ease that no other student has ever displayed in his presence.

Of course, no other student has ever had the audacity to argue about the content of his slides, nor his grading standards, so he supposes it would follow that surprise is illogical.

“I’m just not sure that I really grasp your explanation of how Rosseau disproved Desai’s theory of xenolinguistic determinism,” she says as she flicks through her notes. From the way she is holding her padd, he can see the measured, neat lines of her writing, the precise indents in the margin, and a number of arrows and circled words. When she is not engaging her classmates in discussing, she spends every class bent over her padd, occasionally looking up at him and making and holding eye contact, only to look down once more and resume her rapid writing.

He leans forward and clasps his hands on his desk. “You did not follow it or you did not agree?”

One side of her mouth curves and she ducks her head down. “Present tense, sir. I currently do not grasp it.”

“I will surmise, then, than the intervening hours since class concluded were not sufficient for you to accept my reasoning.”

“Those are your words not mine, Commander.”

“I see,” he says and sits back in his chair. He must leave for a meeting in thirty eight minutes. He calls up the notes he prepared for his lecture and then thinks better of it and reaches for a filmplast containing Rosseau’s most recently published paper on the matter, certain that if she did not concur with the material he presented earlier, she will not do so now, and that further explanation is not only called for, but necessary if he is going to prove his point.

…

“I’m not your best student.”

He was not expecting that she would argue upon being offered the position. “I am fully aware.”

“I didn’t-“ She scratches at the side of her mouth with her index finger. “I thought that applying for your TA was a bit of a long shot.”

It was. It is.

“You have exceptional skills in a number of pertinent areas,” he reminds her, as if that fact is not also written on the resume and cover letter he received, both of which are stacked on his desk. “Unparalleled, in fact.”

He does not anticipate that she will break eye contact with him upon these statements, but she does. Of course, he does not anticipate many things about her, which likely will continue when she serves as his assistant. If she serves as such.

He considers her more closely. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” she says and gives him a small smile. It appears strained.

“It is…” He attempts to locate the correct term in Standard, pausing for perhaps too long as he does so, because she shifts in her seat. “Unusual to find a student so interested in a field.”

“Oh.” She smiles again just as quickly, though this time it is accompanied by a slight laugh. “I sort of figured I was bothering you.”

“Not at all.”

“Ok,” she says and he wishes to - but does not - ask her to clarify if she is accepting the job or simply acknowledging that he was not inconvenienced.

“It is not incumbent upon you to take the position, Cadet,” he says and as he does, he pushes aside the beginnings of an disappointment that threatens to fill him. It is inconsequential. A psychosomatic response to the anticipation of a longer job search, and this time not with the candidate of his preference among the applicants. Still, there are other students who can fill the role, though none who have shown the endurance or ongoing propensity towards the subject as she has so thoroughly and repeatedly demonstrated.

“No,” she says and he nods, redoubling his efforts to ignore the drop in his stomach. “Of course I want it, I’d be crazy not to- Yes. It’s… it’s wonderful, thank you, sir.”

He nods again, this time far more slowly, attempting to parse her answer and to not - as it would be rampantly illogical - give way to the relief that is on the verge of flooding him at the idea she will be working with him for the entirety of the coming semester. For him. Working for him, he repeats to himself, though perhaps not with the vehemence that the thought would carry if any other student sat across his desk, a slow, genuine smile working its way across her face.

…

When she reads, her lips purse and her eyes narrow. He does not think it is a conscious expression, nor how her lips occasionally move over a word.

Every three minutes, she sips from her mug of tea. Twice, she taps her stylus on her desk and once even puts the end of it in her mouth before her eyes dart over to him and she abruptly removes it.

It is entirely distracting to have her in his office. He has not had an assistant before, and were the requirement not newly imposed by the department, he likely would not have sought one out.

She hands him graded response papers at the end of her shift, provides him with her suggestions for discussion questions based on the upcoming readings, and leaves him with a smile and instructions to enjoy his afternoon.

He does so, reviewing her comments, leaving notes on her questions, and examining the angle at which she has left her chair, imperfectly straight in front of her desk, slightly off kilter in a way that continually catches his eye, the only object in the room that is out of place.

…

She looks up from her padd when he places four filmplasts on the edge of her desk. “You are researching Standard acquisition rates for bilingual students. These might be of interest to you.”

“That’s for Buccheri’s class.”

“I am aware.” She had said so just four days ago. Perhaps she believes he does not remember, or even that he was not listening, though why she would tell him such information if she did not want him to absorb it, he cannot determine.

It is, however, conceivable that taking interest in such a small detail is somehow inappropriate. As for exactly how he cannot determine, but it is possible. Humans are, as ever, difficult to understand.

Her smile is so slow in coming that for some time he thinks it will not appear at all. As it is, the filmplasts rest where he has placed them for what he deems as entirely too long before she reaches for them with both hands.

“Thank you.” She shuffles them, flicking through each in turn to scan their titles. “This is really thoughtful.”

“It was logical,” he corrects though the qualification does not detract from the way she continues to smile.

…

He has the beginnings of a headache. Another day, he might be tempted to return to his quarters and meditate long enough to unwind the tension coiling in his temples. Today, he can only mange enough time in his schedule to watch the replicator fill a mug with hot water and spend the few seconds it takes attempting to clear his mind of thoughts.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps informs him that his relative solitude in the break room is at an end. Briefly, he closes his eyes before gathering himself, taking his mug, and determining to leave as quickly as he is able.

A hand is holding open the cupboard that stores the selection of tea the students and professors of the department maintain, the assortment eclectic and ranging from interesting to unpalatable. The hand reveals itself to belong to Cadet Uhura, who presses the cabinet door closed yet does not move from in front of it, instead examining the box she has picked out.

“Is this good?”

It is. And, as such, it is the variety he was intending on selecting for himself, though upon his confirming nod, she opens the container to reveal that only one bag remains.

“Wanna flip for it?”

“Pardon?”

Her laugh is easy and bright and fills the small room. “A coin. Never mind, you can have it if you want.”

His head throbs. “The coin?” he asks before he can properly dissect her reference. When he does, he shakes his head. “I see. It is of no consequence.”

As she has not yet moved, he reaches past her to open the cupboard and, when no tea that is suitable is readily available, begins to sift through the contents. It is, as ever, disorganized, the selection perpetually rearranged and improperly returned to any semblance of order.

“No, now I feel bad, you were here first. Here I’ll-“ From his hand, she plucks a box he has reached onto the top shelf to retrieve and, before he can either speak or move to stop her, has opened both a bag from it and placed it in an empty mug, and done the same for the variety of tea in contention, dropping it into the steaming water he is still holding. “There. Everyone’s happy.”

He could correct her. He is neither predisposed to happiness, nor if he were would today’s set of circumstances be grounds for such. And yet, given the way the corner of her mouth pulls upward and how at ease she is as she fills her mug with water, he finds that he does not have a particular desire to disagree with her.

It is simply that he has very little disposable energy. Tonight, he will retire earlier than is typical, and in the meantime attempt to bear out his day with as much composure as he can. The tea, he decides as he takes a small sip, watching the Cadet replace boxes of tea in the cupboard, is helpful in that aim.

…

“Commander?”

“Cadet?”

She holds out a filmplast to him, and then seems to think better of her choice and instead comes to stand behind his desk, directly next to where he is sitting. She lays it next to his padd, where he can read her neat writing in the margins of the article, and see the paragraphs she has circled.

“I’m wondering if this is really the best example of semiotic evolution.” She taps one finger to a line she has underlined. Her arm is mere centimeters from his. “The article you assigned last semester was a bit clearer.”

“It was published five years ago now.”

“Four and a half years was ok for last term?”

He is not always certain when humans are making a joke, though her eyes are lit up and her lips are twitching, so he is reasonable sure that it is the case now.

He lets his eyebrow rise. “Yes.”

“Gotcha.”

She is fully smiling now and is still very near to him. He pulls his padd closer. “Thank you for your advice, Cadet.”

Later, he examines both papers and then his syllabus. Her point is not baseless nor unfounded. In fact, it is logical to the degree that he might have realized it himself, if he had not put so much stock in using only papers as recent as possible.

For some time he sits at his desk considering the oversight before he turns to her, ready to inform her of his reassessment before he can remember that she has left for the day. An oversight, to be sure, as she had already said goodbye and told him to enjoy his afternoon, and odd that he presumed she would still be there.

Regardless, he has the remainder of his own work to complete, despite the fact that she has moved on with her day, leaving him to attend the numerous extracurricular activities in which she participates and likely to eat dinner in the company of her classmates.

The silence of the end of the day has always aided his concentration, so as there is no reason that today is any different, it does not logically follow that he is confronted by a measure of distraction as he resumes his work, one which is not ameliorated by a greater resolve to focus, nor a firmer attention to his padd when his eyes continue to stray to the filmplast she had placed on his desk what is now some hours ago.

…

“Sorry,” she says the moment he enters his office.

She does not elaborate, which leaves him standing in the center of the room, his eyes on the back of her head. She quickly shuffles through the material on her desk, stacking the majority of it and putting it into her bag in a manner entirely more haphazard than is ordinary for her.

A single filmplast escapes her cull, drifts away on a current of air stirred by her quick motions and is carried from the desk to the floor, coming to rest six centimeters from Spock’s right boot. It is an exam. A completed exam, one filled out in her writing and when he picks it up and looks more closely at it, marked through with corrections and assessment that considering her performance in his class, is less favorable than he might have expected given her intelligence and dedication to her work.

He should not be looking at it. She affords him the privacy of not prying into his belongings, despite the hours she spends in his office, and even on days like this morning when she was here without him, he did not even consider that she might take advantage of the relative quiet to investigate any of the more personal objects he keeps here.

She is not meeting his eyes, half turned as she is in her chair, her hands on her thighs. As he waits, she rubs a fold of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger and continues to not look up at him. His attempts to parse her body language are, as ever, imperfect. She may be angry, though he has seen her in a state of abject irritation before and generally it is not accompanied by her shoulders being sloped inward as they are now, nor does she avoid eye contact in such situations. The opposite, in fact. She could be tired, perhaps, exhausted as many cadets become during midterms, though he has taken note more than once as to how her endurance has never appeared to flag, for she is as alert at the end of each work day and in the final hours of each week as she is any other time.

She swallows and the entire line of her throat works. “I apologize, sir, I was reviewing material for one of my courses. I thought- I didn’t hear you coming.”

When he holds her exam out to her, she does not take it, so he sets it on the edge of her desk. The topic is Interstellar Navigation and by the content, it appears to be from the beginning class in the required sequence. Curious, as he does not believe she has taken even a single intermediate class in the Xenolinguistics department, instead placing into the advanced courses without completing any prerequisites. “It is no matter.”

Clearly, she did not understand him, for she adds, “I’m sorry for using my time in your office for anything other than my assistantship.”

“As long as your work is completed on time, it is not an issue,” he clarifies. His interest is in the outcome of her work, not the process through which she goes about it. Perhaps he should have made that clearer.

“The library was full,” she continues. Her hair drags over her back as she shakes her head. “Is full, currently, still.”

When she sees him looking at the filmplast she has not yet touched, she seizes the edge of it and pushes it into her bag.

“There is no need to further explain, Cadet,” he tells her and means it as some form of comfort, except that the corner of her mouth tightens.

Embarassed. The word comes to mind so suddenly that he is not certain he has actually accurately recognized the clues in her mannerisms or if it is simply one of the only options left as an explanation, though not one that he would typically apply to her. Even when her classmates would disprove a point she had vehemently stood behind, she showed no discomfort, often instead displaying a smile and at times going as far as to raise both of her eyebrows at the other student in what he had presumed was recognition of their skill in formulating a counterargument, not a capitulation of her own point. Indeed, he is not certain that he has ever seen he display any such clear discomfort in his presence as she is now.

“You are welcome to use this room at your leisure, as long as it is not during my office hours or another meeting,” he tells her as she runs her fingers back over her hair, twisting her pony tail around her hand before abruptly releasing it. She has access to his calendar, though he does not always input every feature of his week as he is fully capable of remembering the details of his schedule. He could, though. It would not take much time at all, and would likely increase her efficiency in grading and preparing his slides, as she would not have to wonder about his availability.

She nods in answer and picks up her stylus as she bends over her desk, now clear of her personal work. Again, he looks at the filmplast, now with one corner exposed where she imperfectly placed it in her bag. It is some time before her shoulders uncurl and she sits as she normally does, her back straight.

…

Humans have a tendency to always assume that one more person can fit into a turbo lift. Other species he has encountered at Starfleet do not appear as inclined to force one more occupant into such a small space, so he attributes the habit to some type of peculiarity of Terran culture.

As he always waits for a subsequent lift rather than emulating such a custom, he is often afforded a place at the back of it, which has the added benefit of being pressed near to fewer bodies, as the wall is at his back as opposed to a colleague or student. In typical fashion, he is not so fortunate when it comes to the proximity of others to the front of his body. Today it is Cadet Hannity whose arm brushes against his. She pulls her elbow back and gives him a swift smile that he takes as an apology, though why such a facial expression accompanies an indication of contrition, he has never been able to explain. Cadet Uhura is similarly shuffled towards him, though she does not bestow upon him a similar smile. Instead, she murmurs ‘Sorry’ as her shoulder is forced into his chest, where it remains due to the three fourth year students who are apparently intent on taking this specific turbo lift to the upper floors.

Next time, he will make use of the staircase. This is entirely illogical, to be so packed into such a small area. It is a fire hazard, for one. Two, he is not certain that the weight limit specified by the manufacturers is currently being observed.

In such close proximity, he can feel the edge of Uhura’s bag against his stomach and can smell what must either be her shampoo or another cosmetic she applied. She may have just showered. Perhaps after making use of the gym before the class day began, or maybe it is her habit to do so in the morning regardless of engaging in exercise. Though he is nearly certain that like many of her species and as required by the Academy’s physical standards, she often goes jogging. There is a path behind her dorm that leads to one of the city’s many parks, and while making use of it himself, he has twice seen her enter her building dressed in athletic clothes. It would be a logical habit for her to develop even beyond the requirements of Starfleet, for in much the same vein he specifically allocates time each week to not only leave campus, but to seek out as much of a natural landscape as the city can provide in anticipation of years spent onboard a ship. He had not considered it before, but perhaps if she had the same inclination, he might someday encounter her on those paths. It would be pleasant, he believes, to spend time in her company in such a manner, though now that he considers it he realizes that dispelling the image of her engaged in an athletic pursuit is slightly more difficult than he might have anticipated. He can too clearly picture her with brighter eyes, similar to her expression when she finally grasps a difficult concept, and with the shine of sweat on her skin.

He is suddenly aware that he can feel her breathing, with her body in such close proximity to his.

He has always had an overly detailed an imagination, a fault he has long attributed to his human heritage. The light indicating the passage of floors ticks by entirely too slowly, interminably dragging out the moment until he will be capable of introducing more space between them. The stairs would have been a better choice indeed.

…

The end of the work week is, as ever, heralded by what could nearly be termed a stampede of footsteps in the hall. The final lectures have been let out for the afternoon and along the length of the hall, offices open and are quickly vacated.

In his own, Uhura hooks her arm over the back of her chair and twists further towards him. “Really.”

“That is what the research showed.”

“Huh,” she says. Her heel drumming against the rung of her chair does not indicate the direction of her thoughts, though her tone does not suggest she is convinced. “I just would have thought that the study would have demonstrated a greater statistical effect.”

At the gym, he considers her doubt further, the rhythm and ritual of suus mahna accompanying his thoughts. So too does he dwell on the topic on the walk to his quarters and while he cooks dinner, slicing through a carrot and contemplating her words. After he eats, he reaches for his ka’athrya as is his habit, only to replace it on its stand and continue to hover in front of it, his mind working. Indeed, he can think of nothing else, not when he turns on his monitor to watch the latest news report from Shi’Kahr, a nightly ritual he never quite abandoned despite the years since he has lived there, nor when he types out a response to his mother’s latest message. In all reality, his thoughts are so thoroughly occupied that at length, the only logical option appears to be to indulge them.

The article in question takes him some time to locate. He finally finds it on the bottom shelf of his bookcase, shuffled there with a number of other padds he has not needed to make use of in some time. Sitting on the edge of his couch, he reads it through twice. The research design is logically sound. Stratified random assignment by species, gender, and education level, with a suitably populated control group and low attrition among participants, though has he examines the provided regression table, for the first time since his initial read of the paper he reassesses his perspective on their predictor variables and the interaction effects they chose to include.

He lowers the padd to his lap, considers for only a moment, and then uploads the paper to send to Uhura, hesitating only when he attempts to add an accompanying message. _For your further consideration_. Immediately, he deletes it. _I believe you may have had a pertinent point_. No, it it is not that he believed that, he was unsure this afternoon and now he knows that she does. He erases that line as well. _This may be of interest to you_. That is accurate, at least. He stops himself from tapping his finger on the edge of his padd when he realizes he has begun to do so. He is uncertain as to whether more is required. He begins to write his name only to stop as she surely will know who the message is from, both from the attached file as well as his name and rank in his ID. _Have a pleasant evening_ , he adds. He looks outside. It is completely dark out. It might, in fact, be night though the differentiation between evening and nighttime has never fully been explained to him. _Enjoy your weekend_ , he writes instead. That is certainly suitable.

It takes him longer than it should to finally send the message, as he continues rereading the two lines over and over again until he forces himself to stop.

…

She is looking directly at him. He resists the urge to turn over his shoulder and check if there is something of interest on the wall behind him. He would not do so anyway, for one because he is certain there is not and two, he is equally sure that it is him that she is looking at.

Her attention on him is… confusing. Though perhaps not uncomfortably so, which is further confounding as he is not entirely at ease being the subject of any scrutiny.

“Yes?” he asks, though when she simply blinks at him, he realizes that she was not, in fact, seeking to garner his attention.

“What?” She very slightly shakes her head and then her eyes widen. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I just-“

She turns to her desk and goes so far as to raise her hand to her face, seemingly to block their view of each other, though she quickly returns it to her work surface, picks up her stylus, sets it back down, and then reaches for her padd.

She stares down at it, though her eyes do not seem to be moving. “Are you well?”

“Yep,” she nods. She brushes her hands down her skirt where it covers her thighs. “Yes, sir, I mean.”

She does not raise her attention from her work for the remainder of her shift, nor does she ever provide him with an explanation.

When he twice realizes that he is doing the same as she was, his eyes on her with no real intention behind the study of her, he decides he is not in need of clarification and busies himself with his own work, bending over his desk and attempting to keep his attention there, despite a strong compulsion otherwise.

…

Given the hour, he did not anticipate that anyone else would be in the building, though of anyone who would have chosen to spend their evening at work, he supposes it would follow that it would be Uhura.

However, he did not foresee that she would not be in her uniform, but instead in civilian clothes, nor that she would be sitting at her desk with one hand fisted in her hair and her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she speaks to herself.

“Cadet?” he asks and she startles so thoroughly that her stylus falls from her fingers to skitter across the floor.

He retrieves it for her, as she is currently sitting stock still with her hand pressed to her chest.

When she finally takes it from him, their fingers pass close enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin.

He grips his padd with both hands.

“I did not intend to disturb you,” he says at length, when they have both just continued to watch the other. Humans are not predisposed to long silences. He learned that quickly upon his entry into the Academy, though it would seem that it bothers Uhura less than most others.

“I was just going over some homework,” she says, though that is of course obvious to him.

Still, he has come to learn that humans expect some type of response and while he is certain Uhura would excuse him the effort of replying to such an inane statement, he is willing to offer it nonetheless. “I see.”

He begins sorting through the padds he left on his desk, though even with his back to her he can tell she has not resumed her work. Perhaps he is distracting her. In that case, he will not linger.

“Sir?”

“I will not disturb you much longer.”

“No, I… May I ask you a question?”

His hands still. He turns. It would not be inaccurate to inform her that she just did, though his attempts at Terran humor often are in vain and tonight especially she does not seem disposed to an overly elated mood. Rather, her bottom lip is drawn between her teeth and she bites at it hard enough that he supposes there must be some pain.

“Of course.”

“I’m having some trouble calculating this warp vector,” she says, which is not an inquiry. Regardless, he steps close enough that standing behind her, he can see her padd.

“Has your class covered yet how to account for the presence of solar winds?” he asks her before he can remember that it is considered rude on Earth to read from a position over another’s shoulder.

“Aren’t you busy?” she asks as he pulls the chair that normally sits in front of his desk, placed there for visitors, over next to hers.

“I was only coming by to retrieve a document,” he tells her, though in truth he had meant to do so in order to return to his apartment and peruse it in the relative comfort of his quarters, rather than his office. Though it is really no matter at all. That work is hardly pressing and it would not be the first evening he fills with some menial task to distract from the silence of his rooms.

And regardless, he enjoys teaching. Watching dawning realization take hold in a student has always been satisfying to a degree he never would have anticipated upon accepting the position as an instructor, and with Uhura it is even more so.

For a moment she just looks at him before she turns back to her padd. “We went over it this week.”

His stylus is on his desk. When he gestures for hers, she hands it to him, the casing foggy with the imprint of her touch. “Then if you account for the strength of the flow of ionization from the nearest star,” he begins and points the tip of her stylus to where the information needed is outlined in the question before he quickly writes down the pertinent equation.

She props her elbow on the edge of her desk and holds the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. With her eyes closed, she says, “I’m really bad at this.”

That is obvious. Not only was it apparent from her exam, but the number of times she has tried and failed to correctly complete her homework is evidence enough, crossed out calculations filling nearly the entirety of the filmplast in front of her.

“The material is difficult to grasp,” he offers. For some. Not for everyone, but clearly it is for her.

The skin at her temple creases as she squeezes her eyes shut. “Impossible,” she corrects.

“You possess sufficient intelligence.”

Her laugh when she expels it is far shakier than any he has ever heard from her. “Doubtful.”

“Cadet…”

“I never wanted you to know this,” she says, but does not specify what ‘this’ is, or why she then asked for his help, or why she continues to sit there next to him, if none of it was her intention.

He could excuse himself. She must have classmates willing to help, for she certainly has on more than one occasion offered assistance to other students when they were in a similar state of need, though that no more explains why she is alone in his office at night than she made clear why she shared any of this with him if she did not mean to.

“I failed to pass an engineering exam during my second year.” He did not need to tell her that, and he does not add that it was because he decided not to study for it, sure that his memory of the material covered in class would be sufficient. She at least achieved passing marks on her midterm exam, albeit barely so. Though at least his statement does have the equalizing factor of making two of them who perhaps did not entirely think through their statements. Illogical. Completely so, to speak without proper consideration.

He believes the silence that they sit in could technically be termed awkward, but he is not certain. Regardless, when she eventually removes her hand from her face, her eyes are redder than is typical and she keeps her gaze on her padd.

“Really?”

“If it would be of any assistance, I can also tell you about the Interspecies Ethics paper that my instructor asked me to rewrite before she would accept it.”

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. “Don’t you teach that class?”

“Yes.”

Her exhale is accompanied by an easing of the tension in her features. “That does help.”

She draws her knees up, doing so by hooking her heels onto the rung of her chair. She must have removed her shoes some time ago, because her feet are only covered in socks. Her long fingers comb through her hair where it has fallen forward and he does not watch as she tucks it behind her shoulder, his focus on her padd and the beginning of his explanation, not on the presence of her so close to him, nor the quiet of the building around them.

…

In the mornings when he arrives at his office, she often looks up at him and smiles. At the end of the day, she tells him to have a good night and more than once reminds him - needlessly so - that she will see him tomorrow.

When he makes himself tea and offers her a mug as well, she always accepts, going as far as to ask after the variety when it is one from Vulcan and not Earth, often repeating the word more than once to ensure proper pronunciation. Once he hands it to her, she sits with both hands around her mug, her legs crossed, and her focus on her reading.

It occurs to him that while he is typically inured to the progression of the semesters, letting the time pass as it will with no more thought to its advancement than how it affects the rhythm of his work, this semester he is aware in a way he has not been before of the date that finals will begin and the few days after them until Uhura’s tenure in her position will come to a close.

Illogical, he instructs himself, to dwell on such a topic. He can no more stop the imminent end of the semester than he can draw out the days until then, and regardless it would not do to linger on such thoughts, especially when he is preoccupied with the welling disquiet that he increasingly must dispel every time he thinks of the time left, as well as the anticipation with which he greets mornings he will find her in his office, already at her desk and turning towards him with a greeting.


	2. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mamihlapinatapei - The wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to start. 

“Well,” Uhura says. She taps each finger in turn against the padd she holds folded against her chest. “Goodnight, then.”

“Have a pleasant evening,” he offers in return.

There is a moment in which she appears to hesitate but then she is turning and disappearing out the door, joining the stream of cadets and officers leaving the building to celebrate the long awaited end of the last day of the semester.

Spock remains at his desk. Her chair is neatly pushed in and her work surface is empty, cleared of her belongings now that her position has ended.

It is some time before he rises and longer still until he extinguishes the lights and shuts his office door. Typically, the end of the semester brings a modicum of relief, with the ability to turn to personal pursuits before the next terms begins. Tonight however he is less buoyed by the thought of an increased chance to practice the newest composition he is learning on his ka’athrya or the fact that he will be able to visit the small Vulcan market by the Embassy, as it is routinely held when his classes are in session. He walks down the empty hallway and decides that if neither of those ideas are appealing, he will instead attempt to focus on other ways he might fill the coming days, ignoring as he does so the way in which his footsteps echo in the quiet.

…

The book he intended to purchase is not where it should be. Again, he scans the author’s last names and again reaches the place on the shelf that it should rest, and again finds it empty. He presses his finger into the slight gap there. Then it is not misshelved, but missing.

He resists the urge to close his eyes in frustration and similarly dismiss the accompanying desire to sigh.

It is no matter. He does not need the book to begin with, and seeking out a paper copy is an indulgence that is not strictly necessary, and therefore not entirely logical. He can download an edition for his padd, or simply abandon his plan to read it. There was no purpose behind the intention other than the notion that he might as well attempt to enjoy himself over the vacation, and there are other avenues he can pursue.

He stands for some time at the shelf before realizing that the lapsed minutes have been spent in contemplation of the gap between the remaining volumes and not anything remotely useful. He turns on his heel and is halfway to the door when he stops, pausing midstep, sure that he identifies in the periphery of his vision the cover of the book he has come here to find.

And so too does he recognize the hands holding it open, as well as the forehead behind it that is creased in concentration.

Slowly, the book is lowered and he is blinked at.

“Cadet,” he says.

Uhura tips the book towards her chest and holds it there bent open with her fingers pressed to the front and back covers. “Hi, Commander.”

He is certain that he is too aware of the silence of the shop, the peculiar lack of sound from other patrons, and the stillness of her in the chair she is occupying and him some distance away. What to say next does not come to mind, though such banalities of conversation never have, and not for the first time he is sure that he should have not spoken in the first place, so as to avoid this moment that seems destined to stretch onwards, unending.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she finally offers.

“I did not either.” Without the familiarity of his desk between them and the work they shared, the attempt to cast about for his next words is far more difficult than he could have anticipated. “You did not return home for the break.”

It is not even a question, but a bald statement of fact. Illogical, incredibly so.

“Oh, no, I’m sticking around.”

“Likewise,” he says, even though she did not inquire.

“Really?” she asks and sits up straighter.

He is not certain if he is supposed to answer that. He begins to, only to stop, and then starts to speak again, since hesitating halfway through an action is inefficient and therefore illogical, before realizing he is not certain what he was intending to say if he spoke at all.

Again, she spares him. “There’s a talk tonight on comparative socioxenolinguistics,” she tells him. She folds the book closed and sets it on her lap, one finger marking her place.

“Is there?” he asks, though she had just said that there is.

“It sounds like it’s going to be pretty interesting.”

“It is a fascinating topic.”

“I know, you wrote that paper on it.” He is aware that he did, though he did not know that she had ever read it, but before he can inquire into her interest, she adds, “I was thinking about going. I thought that maybe you knew about it and-” Whatever the completion of her sentence is, she does not articulate it, her voice giving way to a shrug.

He did not know about the lecture, or her curiosity into the subject, or her continued presence on campus, or the fact that there was any possibility he would encounter her today, a fact that is still somehow agitating him despite his efforts towards if not equanimity, at least greater composure. He tucks his hands behind his back and carefully considers his next statement before voicing it. “There is an event tonight at the department to celebrate the end of the semester.”

Though the movement is nearly imperceptible, her shoulders drop. “Oh, that’s… that’s right, I forgot all about that.”

Clearly, more thought was required before speaking. “It is not incumbent upon you to attend,” he quickly clarifies.

“No, I know- Are you going tonight?”

“I had thought to,” he says even though he had not. He had planned to be occupied in another fashion rather than participate in the celebration his colleagues were hosting for themselves and the department’s cadets, though admittedly the pastime he was envisioning is currently resting in Uhura’s hands. A change of plans would, then, seem in order. “Are you?”

“There’s that talk.”

He blinks. She had just said that. “Of course.”

“But I should go, I think,” she says and nods and adjusts her grip on her book.

“I see,” he says slowly. “Did you not wish to go to the lecture on sociolinguistics?”

“No, I do.”

He nods carefully. “Understood.”

For what he is sure is too long, they simply look at each other. When he cannot continue to endure the illogical nature of the moment, the inaction and the silence between them, and the disconcertment that has plagued him since he chanced upon her, he gestures to the door, the motion needlessly abbreviated as he realizes only upon doing so that he does not, in fact, necessarily need to leave right then.

“Oh,” she says quickly. “I don’t meant keep you.”

He shakes his head, which is needless as he also articulates, “You are not.”

“No, but if you have to go…” She offers him a smile, one that quickly fades. “You didn’t get a book, did you find what you were looking for?”

A multitude of answers flit through his mind before he finally just offers, “Yes.”

She tucks her hair back behind her ear. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight.”

Given the casualness of her response, he is not entirely certain he should offer anything more concrete than she has. “Perhaps.” He takes a step towards the door, only to stop again. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

Her smile is wide and fast to come, the force of it seemingly at odds with how her hands flutter over her book in quick rapid movements as she opens it and closes it again without taking her eyes from him. “Thank you. You too.”

…

He watches her from across the room despite his attempts to remain engaged in the conversations in which he finds himself. Twice, their eyes meet and in both instances he looks away when she does, vexed with his inability to keep the subject of his thoughts on the colleagues in front of him.

He is simply tired. It is to be expected that even with his endurance that stretches far beyond the bounds of his Terran colleagues, he is not immune to the weariness the end of a semester brings. The recess of classes will hopefully provide ample opportunity for meditation, which will aid him in regaining his focus. He will spend the time until classes resume resting, as was his intention, rather than attending functions such as this one that he has no true interest in.

Still, he does not leave for some time. It would be rude to excuse himself too early. He made a point of traveling here, so he might as well stay for long enough to make polishing his boots worthwhile and moreover regardless of his own wishes, his supervisors have always impressed upon him the need to attend social events.

Conversation swells throughout the room, laughter carried over the clink of drinks and the soft strains of music playing at a level too low to easily be detected. He sips from his glass and does not look away from his conversation again, sure that if he does he will not be able to restrain the urge to scan the crowd, and unsure of his command over where his eyes will alight if given a chance.

…

With no set schedule to his days, he finds himself choosing arbitrarily when to perform routine tasks. Breakfast does not need to occur in time for him to attend his first obligations of the morning, so he is at his leisure to eat when it suits him, and to linger at his table as he will. He can practice his ka’athrya when he wishes, rather than only in the evening when the business of his day has concluded. Watching an orchestral performance recorded on Vulcan does not need to be timed with his next responsibility, as he has none. Even leaving his quarters for the day becomes optional, to the degree that he is certain he should be more stridently finding pursuits to occupy him, rather than spending the recess between semesters aimless in his too familiar rooms.

As he arrives to the mess hall, Uhura pushes out the door as he approaches it, and on the steps to the building, they both stop at the sight of each other. He has nearly missed her all together, except that rather arbitrarily he had decided to seek out lunch before making a trip to his office that is not strictly necessary but will serve to fill his early afternoon.

She lets the door slide shut behind her as she takes a step closer to him. “It’s leftovers,” she tells him, her face drawing up. “Just so you’re forewarned.”

“Thank you.” She is clearly on her way somewhere. He could - should - bid her farewell. Instead, he says, “It is curious that with the availability of the number of replicators, the dining staff would make such a choice.”

“Efficient, right?” she asks. The sun overlays her in gold and shines on the shirt she is wearing, a white that lights up bright. It is not, strictly speaking, within regulations for her to be out of uniform in the mess hall. It is, however, a rather needless policy. It would be, per her point, very likely inefficient to enforce it, let alone mention it, and therefore illogical.

“Precisely,” he agrees, which makes her smile.

“I’m afraid you won’t have much company,” she says with a nod towards the doors she just exited through. “It’s pretty lonely in there.”

Another moment later, a different choice to his morning, and he might have not seen her at all. The prospect of lunch alone is significantly tempered by the chance encounter, though given the picture in his mind that is quickly coalescing at the thought that he could have arrived even earlier, perhaps not entirely so. “That is unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” she says, squinting up at him through the sun that shines in her eyes, “It is.”

Even with the brief interaction, once he steps inside he cannot help but notice that the room feels darker than normal, though he is certain it is a trick of the light, either the brightness of the light outside, or the lack of other occupants, or the combination thereof that causes him to blink at the sudden depth of the shadows, and perceive more clearly than he might have perfect emptiness of the tables, devoid of occupants and the din of noise that normally crowds the room.

…

Physical exertion has the intended effect of blanking his thoughts. Slightly shaky and sure to be sore in the morning, he grips his shoulder in his opposite hand and works the joint forward and back, deliberating if he is quite done for the day or if despite the risk of injury given his muscle fatigue, he might continue. With his attention turned towards the weight room, blessedly empty of cadets seeking to improve their physiques, and his gaze similarly occupied, he does not pay as much mind to where he is walking as he might otherwise, sure as he is that he is alone.

He is not. A hand is pressed to his sternum and he is stepping back so quickly he is at risk of tripping.

“Oh, sorry, sorry, I-“

“-My apologies.”

Uhura’s hand remains raised in front of her, her palm exposed. He quickly lowers his elbow, releasing his hold on his own shoulder.

“I thought-“ She laughs, though at what he is uncertain. When it threatens, he ignores the thought that he can still feel her fingers pressed against him. “I thought I was alone in here.”

“I did as well,” he says though that is surely obvious.

She runs her hand down the front of her shirt, one of the gray ones issued by the Academy to all students, a Starfleet crest on the chest. Without her turning, he knows there is a second, larger one on the back. Her shorts bear the same emblem and though he has heard colleagues lament the fact that Starfleet has taken the opportunity to also supply personnel with branded socks, the edge that shows above her shoes indicates that Uhura’s appear to be of another make.

He pulls his eyes back to her face. She is still smoothing her clothing, her fingers finding and tugging on the hem of her shirt. “Well at least I wasn’t singing.”

Strands of her hair have come lose and are hanging in a disordered way he has never before seen, her appearance typically immaculate.

He blinks. “Are you not in the Academy Chorale?”

“I- Yes.” Her eyebrows rise. “I didn’t realize you knew that.”

“It was on your resume.”

“Of course.” She shakes her head. With the motion, the strands of hair sweep against her forehead and cheeks and she quickly brushes them back. “Of course it is.”

There were other details of note, such as her participation in the Xenolinguistics Club, the subject of her undergraduate degree, the title of her honors thesis, and the fact that she serves as a mentor to a number of non-Terran first year students. He could, though he does not, ask about any of those as he is not certain of the appropriateness of conversationally discussing information gleaned in such a manner.

He could instead ask about her day, though the obvious answer that she has spent it at the gymnasium is one he can provide for himself, or how her week has been going except that he has now encountered her numerous times and this too he knows.

Though not the particulars. Of course, inquiring after such would necessitate determining if it is information she wishes to share with him, and as he is not in the habit of such type of idle exchanges, he is not certain he can accurately establish such.

“I was going to go grab a bite to eat,” she says and he nods, the relief that she has landed upon something to say far more difficult to dispel than he would like it to be.

“I will not keep you.”

Again, she tucks her hair behind her ears. “Are you planning on staying here for a bit?”

As he considers the immediate future he realizes that while he was previously experiencing the beginnings of weariness, it has since been replaced by an agitation that puts him in mind of quite a lengthier exercise session than he might have otherwise planned. Perhaps cardiovascular conditioning would be in order, to work through the restlessness that has so significantly arisen.

“I believe so.”

“Well, enjoy yourself,” she offers and at a loss for how else to continue a conversation, he finds himself telling her the same in regards to the remainder of her day.

As he walks past the weight room, the door to the women’s locker room sliding shut behind her, he realizes entirely too belatedly that he is in fact rather hungry, in addition to being overly unsettled. There is no reason to look behind him, as he is certain she is gone, and when he does, the emptiness of the corridor confirms it.

Water, then, to alleviate the dryness in his mouth that has arisen as a result of extended exercise, and then continued exertion until he regains the equanimity he had previously found, though he is not certain he can accurately predict precisely how much more physical activity will be necessary to recover that calm.

…

He concludes that there are not more than a couple dozen personnel on campus, for he repeatedly sees the same few staff members, instructors, and students in the empty hallways, the echoing lobbies, and deserted paths of the quad. Therefore, he gives the chance of the figure alone on the bench near to the Engineering building being Uhura quite favorable odds, ones that increase precipitously as he draws nearer. It is a rather pleasing spot, a towering, ancient elm growing between the building and her chosen seat, casting her in dappled sunlight that plays over her as the wind shifts through the upper branches. Logical, to spend time outdoors when they are so often cooped up in buildings.

She notices him before he has reached a distance at which it would be suitable to speak to her, so that her padd is lowered by the time he draws near enough to offer her a proper greeting.

“I was just doing some reading,” she says by way of response, her chin nodding to the padd she has lowered to her lap.

“For class?” he asks and then nearly shakes his head. Classes are not in session. He tries again. “It would seem that you appear to enjoy the pursuit.”

“It’s for a class next semester,” she says, her face drawing into what could well be termed a grimace. “And yes, I very much like it and no, please don’t tell my roommate you found me doing this.”

That, at least, he can predict the likelihood of with certain odds. “I will not.”

Her laugh is light. “Thanks.”

A light breeze pushes the sleeve of her shirt against her arm. “Did you finish your other book?”

“I did.”

“Was it satisfactory?” he asks, though he is nearly sure he knows the answer.

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent.”

Her fingers curve over the top edge of her padd. He is aware that standing in front of her as he is not only causes her to look upwards at a precipitous angle, but also that holding a conversation with such a different in stance is not common on Earth, and yet seated as she is on the center of the bench there is not only no room for him, he is also stymied as to whether it would be appropriate for him to join her, were there available space.

She can stand, if she wishes. Though he is the one interrupting her, so it is unlikely that she would be so inclined. He could leave, of course, though that would negate the fact that he walked out of his way to greet her and furthermore, she has suspended her reading and as far as he can discern, does not object to his presence.

He nods at her padd. “What class is that for?”

“Cardassian Orthography.”

He might have guessed that by the title. “Flanagan is teaching that next semester.”

“I’ve heard she’s good.”

“I took it with her when I was a fourth year student.”

She raises both eyebrows. “What did you think?”

“I believe you will find her syllabus compelling.”

She places her palm on the surface of her padd. “Good, I wasn’t sure if I should really take it now or wait until next year.”

He could say more about the class, though he realizes he is not overly inclined towards continuing a conversation about the happenings of their department.

From her position on the bench, she is still looking up at him, her chin tipped upwards to do so.

He considers backing a step away to ease the angle, though he does not. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“You’re not.” She is once again gripping the padd in both hands. “That class with Flanagan. You weren’t a cadet that long ago, were you.”

It does not sound like a question, though regardless he says, “No.”

She nods and then quite suddenly says, “You may call me Nyota.”

“Pardon?”

“When we’re not… I don’t work for you anymore,” she says as though he was unclear that when the new semester commences, they will not have reason to be in each others company for hours at a time. “And I probably won’t take any more of your classes. So.” She appears to be chewing on the inside of her cheek. She only stops to add, “You don’t have to.”

“That is acceptable,” he says quickly before she can retract the offer.

“I, um-“ She ducks forward until he cannot see her face and he realizes as she pauses before speaking again that he too has leaned forward. He straightens and puts his hands behind his back, too. When she looks up at him again, the corners of her eyes are creased in what appears to be unhappiness. “I told my roommate I’d meet her in a few minutes.”

“Of course.” He was on his way to the grocery store to retrieve non-replicated produce and if he delays much longer, he will no longer have time to prepare the dinner he was planning.

She points. “I’m heading that way, if you are.”

“I am not.”

“Thats-“ She stands and tucks the padd against her stomach. “That’s too bad.”

“You are returning to your dorm?” he asks as she folds her hands over the padd.

“I don’t think so, no.” She shakes her head before stopping abruptly. “But is that the way you’re walking?”

He tips his chin towards her padd, held as it is beneath her crossed hands. Her nails are a dark blue today and she repeatedly passes the padd of her thumb over her opposing thumbnail. “I simply wanted to inquire if you had sufficient time to conceal your padd before joining your friend.”

She blinks and then laughs suddenly, raising the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I should, shouldn’t I?”

“I will not keep you.”

She cuts over the grass to the nearest path that leads in the direction she is going, though halfway there, she spins around and walks backwards so she can face him as she calls, “It was good to see you.”

Really, she should not walk like that. It is hardly efficient, nor safe. She steps backwards into the sunlight and the smile that forms over her face is bright and wide. He very nearly raises his hand in a gesture that he supposes would be a wave of farewell, but stills himself before he can begin to, instead offering, “You as well.”

He waits until she is facing forward again before he turns away from the bench and the tree and the patch of shade she had found, the sun still shining down through the leaves and her figure cutting across the quad when he looks back over his shoulder.

…

He hears her before he sees her, a bright laugh that rises above the din of the cafe’s occupants. She stands at the counter conversing with the barista, both of them smiling at a joke he has not heard.

When her drink arrives, she waves to the other woman with a friendliness he has observed many times before, one that appears enduring across all environments and situations in which she engages.

As she leaves, he debates rising to greet her, though she might be on her way somewhere, or calling to her, though she might not hear him, or resuming his work, though he does not find himself with the compulsion to focus that he had only moments ago.

Before he can settle on a course of avenue, she is weaving through the crowd, her cup held in both hands and the smile not yet faded from her face.

“You come here too?” she asks and though the question is obvious, he finds himself answering it.

“At times.”

“Like now? I keep bumping into you.”

“Only once,” he corrects and her smile widens.

“I think that one was on you.”

He allows his head to tip towards the side. “Debatable.”

She covers the smile with her mug of tea, sipping from it with her eyes on him. “I tried that once,” she says when she has swallowed and points one finger to his theris masu.

He is unable to entirely mask his surprise. “You did?”

“It was… memorable.”

“It is not palatable to humans.”

“You can say that again,” she says and laughs much like she did at the counter. “But don’t actually, since I could do without remembering it.”

That does not account for why she has then raised the topic, though the incongruity can perhaps be laid aside as he has no real intention of probing further. Instead, he asks, “What are you doing with your day?”

“Just getting some tea,” she says and lifts her cup slightly.

“I can see.”

“No other big plans.” She takes a sip. “You?”

“Revising syllabuses.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, though behind her mug he can still see her smile. “You’re not assigning even more reading than you did last semester, right?”

He is not. “Perhaps.”

“I don’t want to think about your next round of Morphology students suffering under any more than we did.” She purses her lips, an expression he typically only saw when she was deep in thought, and yet now appears seemingly in conjunction with her continued smile. “Though don’t let them off easy, either.”

“I am not teaching Advanced Morphology this semester.”

“Oh.” She lowers her mug, holding it clasped in both hands just in front of her. “I didn’t realize that.”

“It will not be offered again until the following semester.”

She readjusts her grip, lacing her fingers together. “Well.” She looks down at the lid on her cup and then back at him. “I’m glad I got a chance to work with you when I did.”

“It was-“ He has to search for a word, and even with the hesitation he allows himself, he is not certain he chooses the correct one, one that truly encapsulates his meaning. “Fortunate.”

“It was.” She opens her mouth to speak, though seemingly stops herself because she only takes another sip of tea and then says, “I don’t meant to keep you from your work, I just wanted to say hi.”

“It is not pressing.”

“A couple more days to enjoy that, right?”

“A few.”

Her eyes on her cup, she says, “It never seems quite long enough.”

Her goodbye, as cheerful as it is with her smile and her wish for him to have a pleasant afternoon, leaves him alone in the midst of the crowd of other patrons. Across from him, the chair at the other side of the table suddenly seems far emptier than it previously was. He banishes the thought as soon as it forms, for it does not do to dwell on such fanciful ideas as the one that springs to mind of the vacancy of the chair, nor too is the image of her occupying it at all helpful.

He pulls his padd to him with a scrape of it across the table. It is entirely too long before his thoughts coalesce around his work, and longer still until he can keep himself from continually looking up from his work to inspect the chair, as if the next time he does, it will not be unoccupied.

…

He joins the streams of cadets and instructors as they cross the quad under the tolling of the Academy bell, the peals ringing out across campus and pounding into his ears. It takes longer to walk even halfway to his office than it would have only the day before, though of course he also had to wait for the turbo lift, what with newly returned faculty also leaving their quarters at the same time, and will likely be forced to similarly navigate the crowds in the lobby of the Xenolinguistics Building when he reaches it.

The masses of personnel seem to move of their own accord, flowing out from dorms and the mess hall and towards academic buildings, parting only for obstacles such as trees and benches and the few clusters of students who have stopped in the way of others to greet friends.

From one of them, an individual detaches.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he hears, followed by, “Commander!”

He stops walking. “Just Spock,” he corrects. He readjusts his grip on his padd. “As you said, you are unlikely to take any more of my classes.”

“I looked them up, you know.” She hitches her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m definitely not taking Intro to Syntax - do you fall asleep teaching that course?”

“No.”

“But do you want to?”

He does not answer, which causes her to laugh.

He must leave in only a moment. She is still smiling. “How was your break?”

She lifts her shoulders, her eyes darting out across the quad. “It was fine, I guess.”

“What classes are you taking?” he asks, and then supplies, “Cardassian, I know.”

“And Theory of Standard Etymology, and Comparative Neurolinguistics.” She grimaces. “And Intermediate Interstellar Nav.” She tips her head across the quad. “I’m headed there now, actually.”

“I trust you can find it?”

There is a moment in which he is unsure she will meet the question with any degree of amusement but then she is laughing again, louder this time, her head tipped back. “That’s-“ She points a finger at him and opens her mouth to tell him what precisely it is, only to be interrupted by the next ring of the bell, this one increasing the pace of the cadets still on the quad and not yet in their classes. She bites at her lip, her smile somewhat staunched. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

His response comes easily, despite how he registers that he really must be walking now, and at a rather brisk pace. “I would enjoy that.”

Her head, which has dropped slightly, comes up rather quickly to look at him. “Me too.”

There seems to be more to say with how they both remain there, their attention on each other and her eyes on him, more appraising than is typical. He is certain there are words that will capture what it will be like to begin the semester anew without her presence in his office, but the only ones that come to mind revolve around his gratitude for the assistance she offered the previous term and he is certain that is not what he means. At a loss, he takes a step backwards, only to find that with the motion, her face falls, and it is then that he realizes she was once again on the verge of speaking.

“Yes?” he asks, quelling the compulsion to hurry towards his class.

“Nothing, nothing.” She shakes her head and offers him a wave. “Have a great start to your term,” she says and then she is gone and he is instructing himself to once again begin moving across the quad, despite the fact that it is a moment before he does so.


	3. Dépaysement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dépaysement: The unsteady feeling you get when you are away from your home country

The custom of locking doors on Earth has become habitual, but it does not then follow that he agrees with it, nor if the computer did not automatically secure his door at the end of each day, would he choose to do so himself. As it is, the routine of unlocking his office each day is one that he has adopted out of necessity and on a morning such as this, a mug of tea in one hand, his padd under his arm, and a stack of filmplasts held rather precariously as he types in the needed code, it is a procedure that he finds tedious at best. Other descriptors come to mind as well, ones less favorably or neutrally worded, and before he can quell the rising irritation that he is tempted to allow himself, footsteps approach from behind him.

For a moment he indulges in the thought of ignoring them, unwilling to greet a colleague at this hour, given that he anticipated and planned for a respite alone in his office before the business of the day begins.

Instead, he turns, and then offers “Hello.”

“Need a hand?” Nyota asks. The quickening of his pulse that he associates with her presence begins even without her reaching towards him. Her doing so only speeds it further and while the agitation is not strictly speaking comfortable, he cannot find it in himself to wish that she does anything other than move close enough to him to remove the filmplasts from his grip. “Good morning.”

“You are here early.” It is an obvious statement, which is illogical and therefore inadmissible and this is not the first time that he has resolved to stop making such inane observations in her presence. He takes the opportunity that entering his office and setting his belongings on his desk provides to gather himself before turning back to her, now lingering in his doorway. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to pick up some notes Lieutenant Glauber left for me last night. And-“ She reaches into her bag, her hair sliding forward over her shoulder. With her head ducked down he allows himself a moment to study her, the way her fingers crook around the filmplasts and the pressure of her tongue to the inside of her cheek creating a discernible bulge as she searches within her bag. He recognizes all the ways in which this interaction would be easier if she were still and reserved, and perhaps even unmoving and did not smile at him as she is now, her teeth grazing her bottom lip. “Here. This is for you. I think you’ll like it.”

On top of the filmplasts, she lays a book and holds them out to him. If he were anyone else, he would smile when he sees the cover. Of course, he has come to realize that even despite the reflexive restraint of the expression, with her it threatens all the same and he has to suppress the urge to allow his mouth to move at all except to say, “I believe I will.”

He allows himself the indulgence of flipping through the pages. The majority of his books he left on Vulcan, as bringing bound copies would have been an inefficient use of his allocated personal space. The pages rustle in the quiet of the room as he opens the cover, examining a crease at the corner of the page of the first chapter where she must have wrinkled it by setting the book into her bag, and another at the top corner of a page halfway through the second chapter, where he presumes she marked to keep her place.

When she shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, he closes the book again, carefully considering his words so as to not misspeak and even then taking a moment to compose himself before he asks, “How has your-“

“What did you think-“

He stops when she does. Her laugh follows their mutual interruption, quick and bright and she tucks her hair back with her free hand. “No, you go.”

He nods to the book, rather needlessly as he also asks, “I wished to know if you enjoyed the novel.”

“Yes, very much so.” She continues to smile. “And I was going to ask after the start of your semester.”

“It has been acceptable,” he says and then reconsiders the number of meetings he has attended and the noise that seems perpetually plagued to swell in the hallways as cadets and instructors exchange greetings. “Adequate.”

Her nose wrinkles, her eyes creasing in a grimace. “I know.”

“Yours?”

She sighs. “Busy.”

“Understandable.”

Her shoulder has found the edge of his doorjamb and she straightens from where she has leaned against it. “So I should probably-“ She points behind her. “I don’t want to miss breakfast.”

“Of course.”

Again, she adjusts her bag. “Have you eaten already?”

“Before I came to campus.” Now, it feels like an oversight not to have waited, though at the time it had been logical. It still is, he reminds himself, as he has work to complete and only so much time to do so before the building is swarmed with other personnel. No matter how many years he has spent working among humans, the constant din that perpetually accompanies their presence continues to wear on him.

“You don’t have to suffer through rubbery eggs? My roommate says they have to be made from some sort of polymer.”

“The main advantage of earning a commission is being alleviated of the necessity of the mess hall meals.” Strictly speaking, this is not entirely true, but it causes Nyota to smile.

“I’m jealous. Though, do you- Are there eggs on Vulcan?”

“Not from chickens.”

“Are they better than what the Ops cadets cook?”

“Most eggs are,” he says and she grins, her shoulder again pressed to the doorjamb, though she apparently realizes how she has once again relaxed into it for she stands upright.

“So,” she says and takes a step backwards into the hall, though she does not immediately turn to walk away. “Let me know what you think about that.”

Her finger extends towards the book in his hands and he smooths his palm over the cover as he nods. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

“A tall order,” she says and leaves him with a smile and the sound of her footsteps traveling down the hall. If she had come any later, the particular cadence of her steps would be swallowed up by the bustle of her fellow students and his colleagues. Now, he listens to her walk away, sitting at his desk only when the turbo lift whisks open.

His tea has cooled from the temperature he typically prefers, and the book proves an oddity when placed among the padds and filmplasts on his desk. He did not thank her. He fingers the edge of the pages, running his thumb down them and considering this oversight. He knows the gesture is expected, even though rationally, his gratitude should be understood, inferred, but here Terran norms dictate his articulation of it nonetheless. Regardless of his own thoughts on the matter, he will ensure that she knows of his appreciation. Soon. Tonight perhaps, after he has read the beginning of the novel, for it will give him more to add to the message.

He knows even now that he will labor over composing it, rewriting it until it is suitable, and even then he may well find it lacking. Pursuits of this sort do not come easy to him, though he recognizes that not as a reason to avoid the attempt, but to try with that much more intent. As he begins his day’s work, he leaves the book where it is, despite the fact that it is not entirely satisfactorily placed on his desk, rather in the way of his typical routine.

…

He only hesitates briefly when he spots Nyota across the crowd in the lobby of the Xenolinguistics building, waiting for the cadet with whom she is engaged in discussion to depart. And yet, even when that occurs, a crowd remains around Nyota. It would perhaps be simpler if Nyota were alone. No, not perhaps, but definitely. Absolutely so, since a second of her friend’s eyes track his progress across the room even though Nyota has not yet noticed him.

Nyota receives an elbow to her arm when Spock draws near and her friend receives a look he cannot identify. He has found no reliable translation for that type of expression, those looks humans trade between themselves and others, no way to understand what it is that Nyota intends to convey, though the need to do so is rendered moot as she sees him, as her features soften.

Nyota takes two steps towards him, effectively drawing away from her companions, which affords him the opportunity to hand her a padd and say, “I do not pretend to have much familiarity with Terran norms, but finding a note that instructs one to consume soil is, I believe, not a compliment.”

Her laugh rises above the clamor of conversation around them.

“Chthonophagia?” She crosses her hands over the padd, pulling it to her stomach. “I’ve been looking all over for this.”

“It was in the break room.” Her writing is clearly recognizable, as neat and precise as any he has seen among humans in a way that approaches how writing is taught on Vulcan, the care given the practice, and the exactitude expected.

Her friend circles around Nyota’s shoulder and reads the padd when Nyota tips it forward again, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. No, roommate. Spock has seen them together a number of times and once, Nyota made mention of rooming with an Orion. “Nyota, why?”

“Limivorous,” Nyota says, which only causes her roommate to shake her head. “Lithophagous.” Nyota looks away from her roommate to give Spock another smile. “Yum.”

“A case of geophagy,” Spock supplies. When Nyota smiles, her roommate puts her hand over her eyes and once again shakes her head.

“Allotriophagy,” Nyota adds.

“I believe I may then be faced with a case of aphagia.”

“The inability to eat or swallow? I hope not, it’s nearly lunch time.”

“Only a confusion over what class this might possibly be for,” Spock assures her.

“I’m going,” Nyota’s roommate declares. “I don’t want to know the answer, and you two are ruining my appetite as it is.”

Their farewell is cheerful and seemingly friendly despite any purported ire. Spock does not pretend to understand, neither Nyota’s roommate’s tone, nor how it can be coupled with a seemingly congenial wave goodbye.

Left alone together in the crowd still milling about the lobby, Nyota takes her hair in her hand where it has fallen forward over her shoulder and twists it once. “Speaking of. I was thinking about running out to get something, and it’s raining, so.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Her eyes are still on him and he finds himself entirely unable to parse the meaning behind her statement. For some time she simply watches him before she adds, “It seems like only one of us should have to get wet. Do you want something?”

There is no need to hesitate with his answer and yet still he repeats her question to himself. He does want lunch, and he certainly wants it with her and he says “Yes” even as he also nods, needless as the repeated confirmation is.

When she rejoins him in his office, rain has spattered across the shoulders of her uniform, echoing the light drizzle that streaks the windows. After only a brief hesitation, he shuts the door, so that between the gray outside and the muffled noise of the hall, his office regains some of the calm he prefers. Her eyes dart up towards his and he anticipates a comment, only to have her hold out a handful of cutlery and napkins, and then hand him a small container of salad dressing for his meal. It is vinegar based, and his salad has no meat or cheese, the twin of what she has procured for herself.

Twice, he looks up from his lunch to find her eyes on him and twice she ducks her head back down, continuing to both speak and eat in turn.

He is still studying her when she looks up again, her fork halfway to her mouth before she lowers it, her hands finding and gripping the sides of the container on the desk in front of her.

She takes a breath and says, “I really enjoy spending time with you.”

With his fork wedged under a slice of cucumber, he stills. This is perhaps why eating and conversation is so uncommon on Vulcan, as the attempt to land upon a response is far more difficult than he could have imagined, though it seems unfair to blame his food for that.

His mind is a blank buzz of competing thoughts, each demanding attention and yet none particularly or even moderately helpful. He calculates this distraction as an entirely overblown response to her simple statement, one which requires only an equally straightforward answer. He carefully spears the cucumber and begins to answer, only to realize abruptly that he still does not know what to say despite now having made to speak. Finally, after what is certainly too long, he manages, “Likewise.”

She also digs her fork into her salad. “I’m glad,” she says with an ease that is so far from how he must concentrate on eating his next bite with any equanimity that they might have been having two different conversations.

Though they were not. Her hand finds the flat of her thighs and she adjusts her skirt, a movement he has long noticed as habitual in her. He attempts to calculate if there is more to say, but she is already continuing to speak, this time on the subject of her Orthography class, and he is allowed to simply listen, his attention far more on her than on the food he continually reminds himself to continue to consume.

She remains even after they are finished eating, lingering until the bell for the next class period rings out across campus. Only then does she gather the containers, silverware, and napkins to take with her, erasing any visible evidence of her visit and yet leaving him to think of her and her words for the remainder of the afternoon and then well into the evening, unshakable from his thoughts as he attempts to refocus.

…

At the bottom of the steps to the library he hears his name.

“What’d you get?” Nyota asks when she reaches him where he has waited for her, watching her jog down the steps, slipping past a knot of instructors that stand between them.

He shows her the padds he selected and she takes them from him, shuffling through them and reading each title in turn. They are hardly related to her own research and yet that does not stop her apparent interest, her eyes quickly scanning more than one of the abstracts of the articles.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, handing them back before letting her thumb find the strap of her bag and hook into it. She is closer to him than he can remember her being before. “On Thursday, the comms staff from the Antares are presenting their research over at HQ.”

He taps the padds into a neater stack. “I am aware.”

“I’m going.” There is the barest pause before she adds, “I think you should come too.” She appears to be having trouble looking directly at him and rushes onward before he can answer. “They’re talking about research into comparative etymology, which I know you once wrote a paper on and they were recently in the Aurigaen system, which you mentioned in your class has planets that have completely unique morphologies than found anywhere else, and I think it would be really exciting to hear them talk about it.” She swallows. “Also I think you should come just because.”

“Just because?” he echoes back. Again he straightens the padds. Is this not what he was waiting for, for what he had hoped, and yet couched in a phrase he must parse out, not spoken plainly and with a backing of logic, but so imprecise that he turns them over in his thoughts, the shape of the words on an endless spiral that circles through his mind. Nyota is blinking repeatedly and rather quickly and he is suddenly certain that he can clearly perceive his own heartbeat. “Yes.”

She nods, once. “Good.” Her hands flutter near to her bag and she touches the top of it before pushing her hand inside. He tucks his own hands behind his back so that the do not hang uselessly at his side, only to remember the number of documents he is holding and shuffles them into a tidy stack once more, one far neater than is likely necessary. “I don’t have your comm ID.”

She does not explain how such a statement is related to her invitation, just removes her own comm from her bag and when he recites the number to her, keys it in.

“I’ll call you so you have mine, too,” she says and then she is telling him that she’s looking forward to Thursday and then is gone as suddenly as she arrived into his day, disappearing into the library with one backwards look at him, leaving him with the sight of her back before the door closes behind her.

 _Just because_. The meaning is unnavigable. Elusive. Difficult to understand to the degree to which it might be unfeasible to make a further attempt and repeated endeavors leave him standing alone with his padds in his hands, rapidly drawing the attention of other professors that he finds he would much prefer remain engaged in their own conversations.

His confusion does not matter. It is immaterial and unimportant and he dismisses the urge to continue attempting to parse the phrase as unneeded and unproductive.

In his office, there is an indicator light blinking at him from his comm, alerting him to a missed call that, when he opens the casing and examines the screen, has a timestamp of only moments after she slipped through the doors to the library.

He begins to add her number to his contacts list, only to stop.

The other numbers in his comm, excluding family, are arranged by rank and surname. He begins to type in ‘Cadet’ but pauses, unsure whether, despite the moniker assigned to all students, she has yet progressed to Ensign, or even beyond, a rank she will assume anywhere other than on the Academy’s campus. The resume she provided is now several months old, though he is certain he would be aware of any promotion and yet she is so clearly driven that he is also sure that the probability she is not pursuing a higher rank even as a student is slim.

Of course, he could call her to find out. Or look up her record. That would be the logical course of action and while he can identify that and even instruct himself to do so, he considers that instead he could simply ask her when he sees her, especially now that he knows when that will next be.

His debate is interrupted by a buzzing in his hand that resolves itself into an incoming comm call.

Slower than he might otherwise have, he answers it.

“You’re there,” Nyota informs him. “I thought…” She laughs, the sound both breathy and static filled, as if her mouth is too close to her comm. “I thought I’d leave you a message.”

“I can disconnect the call and let you carry out your intended plan,” he offers and she laughs again.

“No, no, this is- Good, yeah.” She clears her throat. “I had meant to ask if you wanted to grab a bite to eat beforehand,” she says, though she does not explain why she did not take the opportunity to do so when they spoke in person. Prescient, then, that she now has other means to contact him. Logical, eminently so. “There’s actually a place nearby that’s good. I’ve been there a few times, I think you’d like it. It’s- There’s lots of vegetarian dishes.”

“That would be enjoyable, then.” Paradoxically for his memory, it takes him a moment to land upon what she had so recently said to him, to echo it back to her in turn, an idiom that he would normally not employ and feels unnatural to do so now. “I will look forward to it.”

She sounds as if she is smiling when she says, “Me too.”

It is when she has hung up that it occurs to him that he could have asked after her rank, but did not. Curious, really, that both of them suffered such a lapse in their prior intentions.

At length, he simply types, Nyota, closes his comm, and replaces it on his desk. Later, he will inquire further. It will, at the very least, give them a topic of discussion, especially as he is so often left unbalanced when he is in her presence.

…

When she offers to pay for his dinner, the expression he attempts to keep from crossing his face prompts her to quickly shake her head. “You can say no, I just thought…”

She does not tell him what she thought, leaving him so thoroughly confused that he continues to just watch her across the table.

At length, she takes a deep breath and while he cannot see due to the obstruction of the table between them, it appears she has placed her hands on the tops of her thighs. “I invited you here and I thought that perhaps the gesture would be… acceptable.”

“I see,” he says slowly. When his thoughts restart, objections come quickly to mind. He earns a far higher salary than she does. He agreed to the meal under the assumption he would purchase his own food.

On Vulcan, it would be illogical to purchase sustenance for another, though he understands that is not a custom that extends to Earth.

So too has he come to learn the specific connotation it carries here.

She continues to watch him and only when he nods does he realize how straight she has been sitting, for she quite visibly relaxes. He might do so as well, though he feels caught rather motionless even now that the moment has slipped past them. Quickly, too, for what feels like a moment of some import. Great import, really. Consequential in a way that even now he attempts to firmly grasp.

He catches her eye when her gaze darts to somewhere past him, over his shoulder and beyond. “Thank you.”

She take a drink from her water glass and shakes her head and then immediately nods and says, “Of course.” She takes a second sip. “So,” she says, speaking quickly now. “The Chorale? We’re working on this new composition - we’re performing it soon, actually - and I realized the composer is Vulcan. T’Sileia?” Nyota takes another sip of her water and then continues speaking. “And I read a number of papers on her work that examined pre-reform pieces. It’s really interesting stuff, especially the traditional influences she uses in combination with such modern composing.”

This at least he can discuss with some equanimity. “You read Vulcan?”

“Yes. But, that’s also on the list of things you can never tell Gaila, ok? Because I learned it over a series of weekends, and I told her it was for class, but I was just curious.”

“What else do you do on your weekends?”

She laughs. “To be fair, this past one I watched two movies.” She smiles at the table. “Not nearly as impressive.”

If he is going to be fair per her instructions, carving out enough time to do so while retaining her academic record suggests skills at time management that few cadets possess. He would articulate that if he knew how best to do so, but instead can only manage to ask which movies they were and to confirm that he has viewed neither, per her guess.

As he sits beside her at the talk, he pays attention not to the various officers from the Antares that stand to present the results of the studies they conducted, but how if he were to shift even minutely, his elbow would come into contact with Nyota’s and the way in which she occasionally looks over at him. She has a considerable amount of work to complete based upon the courses she is taking and as far as he is aware she continues to be involved in a number of extra curricular, which is compounded by the fact that he cannot in anyway suppose she would be neglecting any of her obligations, so instead must have changed her schedule substantially to allow time for tonight.

All things told, at the end of the evening he should pragmatically bid her farewell in an efficient manner so as to release her back to her responsibilities. Instead, they walk back to campus in a manner that can only be described as leisurely, lingering together in the cool of the night air. He should have worn a warmer jacket, as he did not anticipate this length of time spent outside, but even with the temperature, an evening so different from the heat that would still hang in the air were they on Vulcan, he does not rush.

It is only when he is certain that she cannot delay any longer or risk inadequate rest that he finally offers, “Thank you for dinner.”

“I’m really glad we did this,” she says and while he is not unfamiliar with her smile, the one she gives him now is entirely different than others she has bestowed upon him. It is gentle, in a way, and bright and he realizes the longer the moment stretches, the way in which he is increasingly at risk of continuing to simply watch her, his eyes traveling over her face in his attempts to discern how precisely it is that she appears so pleased in a way that is so different from how he sees her at any other time during their workweeks.

Of course, they are not now at work, a distinction he considers for the walk home, one that lingers even as he reaches his apartment.

…

In the end the decision to attend is easy, as his schedule allows just enough time to slip into the rear of the auditorium. As always, he forgets to account for how dark humans keep their performance spaces and he waits for his eyes to adjust before he attempts to find a seat, so that the music has already begun by the time he finds himself beside a Lieutenant he recognizes from the Engineering department. Spock does not greet him, his focus instead on the bright lights of the stage and the performers there. While he does not seriously entertain the thought that Nyota can see him here in the shadows, it crosses his mind before he whisks it away, and so too does he dispel the notion that he can pick her voice out from among her fellow singers. Instead, she blends in with the rest of the Chorale, dressed in black as they are, and shuffled in among them as one of many.

In the halls of the Xenolinguistics buildings he cannot help but constantly make note of her movements, her trips to the break room, the various classrooms she enters and exits, how she stops at the door to his office whenever she is passing by to exchange a handful of words, needless and inessential as they are. Here at least there is some distance between them and he can pretend that it inures him to her presence, a fanciful notion though one he embraces as if abiding by it will ease the agitation that she so constantly stirs in him simply by the thought that they share a campus, that she walked into his life as a student among many and now shares her time with him. He recognizes the discomposure she kindles in him as it is not beyond comprehension or explanation, and yet so foreign as to be nearly indecipherable. No one else would have compelled him to come here tonight and for no one else would he indulge the urge to do so at all, out of his way as it is, the performance interruption to his schedule that in other circumstances would be inadmissible, inexcusable, and yet tonight he cannot find a fault in the thread of logic that has led him here, to this chair and this place and these strains of music that rise up through the room, encompassing him as he eases into listening to the current of the melody, his attention unwavering from where it has landed.

…

He stares down at his comm. He was going to pick it up seventy six seconds ago and place the call to Nyota that he has been planning for eighteen minutes now, which does not explain why it remains in front of him on his table.

He nearly abandons the plan all together before forcing himself to open the gold casing, and queue her ID. Still, he hesitates before pressing it.

“Hi,” she says when it is answered after the second ring, far faster than he believes he was prepared for. “Gaila, no- Hold on.”

There is considerable background noise that abruptly diminishes.

“Is this an inconvenient time?” he asks.

“No, no, this is perfect. Hi,” she repeats. “How are you?”

“Acceptable.” He adjusts his grip on his comm, certain he does not need to hold it so tightly. “Yourself?”

“Good, just, you know, enjoying the experience of dorm life.”

Around him, his quarters are as silent as they always are. Still, too. He pushes his chair back from his table and stands, pacing to his couch and back again. “I can not admit to much nostalgia for that stage in my career.”

Her laugh is light. “I think the idea of it ending someday is getting me through it,” she says and then immediately adds, “No, I love Gaila, of course.”

“I understand,” he says as if he can make any sense of her chosen grammatical structure. Odd, when she is normally so precise with her speech during the workday. He picks up his mug of tea and sets it back down without drinking. “I had thought to tell you that the other night, your performance was exemplary.”

The pause that meets this statement is longer than he could have anticipated. “You came?”

“Yes,” he says, though that should be obvious. He quickly follows it with the other fact he meant to impart, speaking faster than he likely needs to. “I could not stay afterwards. I had a meeting.”

“I can’t- you really came?”

“I enjoyed it very much.”

“Wow.” There is another pause. “Thank you.”

He has concluded the purpose of his call. He examines the potted plant he keeps on his table, the one with the red soil of home. “What are you currently working on?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” she says and then immediately adds, “Interstellar Nav. Like always.”

“How is it?”

“No, terrible, I can’t talk about it, I’m too happy that you came the other night.”

“I did not intend to distract you.”

Again, she laughs. “I could use some distraction.”

“If that is the case,” he says and paces back to his desk. Outside a drizzle has started, streaking the window pane and turning the early evening a dim gray. He turns on the lamp on his desk, the bulb shining against the window,casting the glass in a golden glow. “I can inform you that I particularly enjoyed the piece by T’Sileia.”

“Oh, me too, though I think some of it was a bit lost in translation for a couple of the helmsman,” she says. “Not to pick on pilots, of course. Or the Engineers. Or a couple of science cadets. You don’t have them over there in the labs studying the influence of pre-reform compositions on contemporary pieces?”

“Most of their instruction is concerned with ensuring they utilize the correct size of pipette.”

“You know, that’s a shame, they’re really missing out on some serious in depth analysis, the type of which I can promise you nobody else in the Chorale cares about.”

“I did not know you were so well versed in the subject.”

“I’ve been holding back,” she says and he can hear the smile in her voice. “I can also tell you that T’Seleia is actually my second favorite composer, after T'Pleia.”

In the corner of the room, sitting on his bookcase, are the data chips he had set aside when he first decided to call Nyota. Now they feel prescient, an unanticipated return to the moment before he had decided that silence would be helpful in his determined task. “I was just playing her newest recordings.”

“See, I knew you had good taste. And you’re lucky you got a copy, I looked all over for one over break.”

He touches his fingers to the edge of his desk and shifts his weight to his other foot and says, “If you would like to listen to it, I am at home, currently.”

It is a logical offer. He waits.

He is on the verge of once again adjusting his stance when she says, “Ok,” and then immediately asks, “Really?”

Hastily, he adds, “I do not wish to impose on your evening.”

“You’re not,” she says so quickly he has barely finished speaking. “I’ll- I can be there in a few minutes.” Again, she pauses, nearly interminably. “Where- uh, what’s your address?”

In the time before her arrival, he examines his clothing, which remains his uniform, the contents of his apartment, his memory of T’Pleia’s composition, and finally the thermostat, which he turns down further than he ever has.

He is sure it is still too warm when she arrives and immediately shrugs off her jacket. When he takes it from her, it is warm from her body and slick with the light drizzle. “Nice place.”

Based on what criteria she makes her evaluation, he is not sure, struck as he is by the sight of her standing in the center of his quarters, peering towards his kitchen and then the door to his bedroom. Her eyes fall on his desk, and then his bookshelf, and then the coffee table, which she walks over to and picks up the book she has lent him.

He unroots himself from where he remains near to the door, following her over. She thumbs through what he has read so far. Her nails are tonight painted a deep blue and there is a small imperfection on her thumbnail.

“The end of chapter four,” he supplies when he realizes she is searching for a bookmark.

“That’s a good part.”

He is not accustomed to hosting guests and he has to remind himself to offer her tea, rather than expect her to make it as if they were on Vulcan. She sits on the edge of the couch with it cupped in her hands, her eyes on him in a way that he is sure he can viscerally feel, no matter how inane the notion.

When he sits beside her, she asks, “You really came to the concert?”

He is too warm even with the heat turned down. “I did.”

That night, for the first time in longer than he cares to consider, he takes the holos he has of his home from their place on his bookshelf.

Her arm grazes his when she leans closer to inspect them, the cushions of his couch forming a dip that tips them towards each other. “What do you miss the most?”

The simplicity, though when he goes to articulate that, he finds that he cannot. It was not easy to live there and he no more understood his place on Vulcan than he can make sense of it on Earth.

“The food,” he finally answers because she is continuing to watch him and he is sure he is supposed to offer some type of answer. He swallows. Even that is difficult to actually voice.

“There’s that Vulcan restaurant,” she says. “Down by the water.”

“Have you been?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to.”

The words come with more confidence than he could have ever anticipated, the way in which she is looking at him, so expectant and open, pulling from him with ease, “If you would like, I will take you.”

She ducks forward as she smiles, her hair slipping into her face and steam wreathing her, curled up from her cup. There is an unfurling within his chest, a knot of tension pulled loose as her eyes again rise, as she says, “I would love that.”


	4. Basorexia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

It is in the moment just before their kiss occurs that he knows it will, a certainty of what is to come that shines bright in her eyes. It seems as if that knowledge, the prescience rendered clear by how she is watching him, how close to him she stands, should be useable in some way, should spur in him some action or instill in him some type of instinct but the most that he can do in the heartbeats between the realization of what is to happen and when she shifts closer still is to think that he might have known even earlier, that the long slide of moments strung together in what in hindsight is a clear path to this, here, an inevitability of this time and place, is an ineludible thread that he might have seen all along.

Her eyes are warm until she closes them, the promise of the moment hanging in anticipation, and he can feel only soft breath on his face, the fingers she lays light on his wrist. Her hand turns into his, folds together with his when he curves his fingers around hers, the light, soft skin of her palm warm beneath his thumb. The thoughts that skitter there are half heard, sketched lightly and indistinct and he does not push but they come all the same, a misty ripple as if through foggy glass. He could chase after them, wade through the dim blur to where her mind is bright and sharp, but he does not for this is enough, her hand tucked into his, her other fingers light on his cheek and the tipping upward of her face, the bending down to her, the contact between them so brief as if not to have occurred at all, if he were not already replaying every moment of it in an endless loop, if the feel of her lips on his were not etched into him now.

As she lowers herself onto her heels, as he takes a breath that is not the scent of her skin but cooler night air, and as their kiss flits away from now to what has been, he registers that he is not entirely certain what is next to come. A continuation of their conversation, perhaps. Proceeding with their slow walk back towards campus, the one that has wound through the city, circuitous and indirect and rather ideal in its casual approach towards arriving at any destination. He could say something, though what he cannot determine, or perhaps touch her, but his fingers feel thick and his hands seem too heavy, her fingers folded into his impossible in their small size. He would find the thread of reason that would lead him to acknowledging the illogical nature of this thought, that nothing about their hands could have truly changed in the last moments, except that he remains caught in the uniquely curious experience of having her so close to him with her so obviously and apparently and utterly happy.

“Come here,” she whispers and with a hand on the back of his neck she decides for them, pulling him down so that he can kiss her again, the night continuing to circle on somewhere beyond them, far away from the details of her fingers tightening on his, her breath on his lips, and the gossamer thin thread of her thoughts, a delicate silk diffusion of delight, of hot happy joy that spreads across his skin where they touch.

…

“I’m going,” she announces for the second time, as if she has moved from her spot on the sidewalk, let her boots carry her to her next class, away from the respite of a cup of tea, an hour spent together that was carved out from the middle of their day.

“I can see that.”

“I am,” she says and laughs and steps into him, her grip a light tug on the front of his jacket. Her bag nudges his hip and it is impossible that to part for a few hours, for classes and a meeting and the business of the day, could be like this, could leave him in ragged ribbons, each one a thought of her that he knows even now he will not be able to dispel, no matter the lecture waiting for him to give, the papers he will grade, the conversations he will find himself part of that will be a pale shade of gray compared to her here in front of him. To be rent apart from her, language too fanciful, too effervescent, too impractical to bear thinking about. And yet.

She always creates a pinpoint of focus, washes out his surroundings until all that is left is her, the world a blur beyond the fall of her hair over her shoulder, the track of her eyes over his face. For too long has he hated being watched. Now although he can hear cars on the street around them and is sure that people continue to walk past, his awareness sharpens to how her cheek pushes into a wider smile when he kisses her there.

“I will see you soon,” he says and she nods and he kisses her again, her fingers tight on his coat.

…

Dinner together is not new, but in the mess hall it feels as if it might be. Cadet Gaila’s eyes follow him and he supposes he should be thankful that nobody else has sought to join them.

Beneath the table, Nyota’s hand slipped into his some time ago. Now he pulls it into his lap, balances their twined hands on his thigh and rubs his thumb over her knuckles. She does not react and he does not either, their conversation uninterrupted. Once, she squeezes his fingers and he returns the increased pressure, her hand warm and soft, cupped where it is within his own.

…

“That theory is outdated at best.”

“At best?” Nyota puts her mug down without drinking from it. “At best, Spock? At worst your-“ she waves towards the padd on the table in front of him, the one he laid there after dinner with the intention of working. “-Evidence, if it can be called that, is so lacking substance that-“

“-New findings are often met with resistance, which can be-“

“-No, resistance is one thing. Clearly being right is another.”

“If you would simply consider-“ He is stopped by her mouth on his, the remainder of his point a stifled muffle. 

Her hair is a soft slip under his hand, a heavy slide through his fingers and he lets himself be drawn into her, to lose the thread of what he was next to say in favor of her lips tugging on his, the brush of her nose on his cheek, how her knees bump into his own when they both slide to the edges of their chairs.

“I will assume, then-“ He has to pause for a breath, one that is shared with hers. “-That you are capitulating your point.”

“Concede defeat?” Against his mouth, she smiles. It makes it more difficult to properly kiss her, though he makes the attempt all the same. “Never.” He is still leaning into her when she sits back, already shuffling through the filmplasts laid in front of her. “And let me tell you why.”

…

The mug is too hot to properly hold but he cups it all the same, heat searing into his palms in a reminder to keep his hands where they are.

“Hey, you.” She leans a hip against the counter and there they stand for a moment, the door of the break room open onto the hall that floods with students, professors, staff walking back and forth in an endless stream. Here, though, there is the scent of tea and her eyes on him, warmed with her smile, and a handspan of distance that he will not allow himself to close.

She takes his mug from him and sips from it and he permits the imagined slip of their fingers against each other, lets himself believe for a moment that the warmth of his hand is from hers, not the mug she carefully replaces into his palm.

They shift away from each other when two cadets enter for their own tea, an adjustment of weight, a quick shuffle of boots on tile as if that space between them had always existed, as if it did not perpetually threaten to drift smaller and smaller, dwindle until it was not to be found at all.

…

“How?” she asks, the dough held in her hands and her body craned towards him at a precarious angle.

He holds his own ball of dough out to her, so that from her seat on his counter, she can better watch his demonstration, her forehead creasing as she attempts to mirror his movements.

“You must twist it slightly further.”

The cabinet beneath her feet gives a hollow note when her heel taps it. “But the dough breaks.”

“Do not use so much force.”

“Oh. Really. I hadn’t thought of that.” She crosses her legs, one knee folding over the other. Her bare foot swings in the air as she bends over the dough now held in her lap. “Maybe the logical deduction is that this is impossible.”

“It could hardly be-“

“-Don’t say it,” she says before he can point to the tray of krei'la he has already formed, the ones he completed before she finished her work and requested a lesson. “Closer,” she instructs and he proffers the dough in his hands. “Nope, even closer.”

Her foot bumps his hip. “Is this suitable?”

Her ankle wraps around his thigh, pulls him between her legs when they again uncross and he goes willingly. “Show me again?”

He does, only to have her shake her head. When she catches her bottom lip between her teeth, he sets down the krei'la and pulls at her lip with his thumb. 

“It’s hard,” she says, her mouth moving beneath his touch. A touch of moisture is left on her lip and he wipes it away. 

He covers her hands with his, feels her sharp focus, feels her awareness of him so close to her, and guides her fingers in the correct motion. “It is possible that due to your lower body temperature, the dough is less pliable.”

“Really?” she asks, her voice low.

Her thumb slips from beneath his to slowly draw along the side of his index finger. “Probable.”

“Hmm.” Her finger circles his knuckles. “Logical.”

Her mouth is pliant beneath his and she leans up into him as far as her position will allow. He shifts her backwards, her foot pressing into the back of his thigh in counter balance. Her mouth parts under his with a familiarity he once would have considered impossible and now he simply sinks into, eager for the touch, for the scent of her skin and the taste of her.

She laughs into his mouth when her stomach rumbles.

There is flour on his sweater and now on her skirt, sprinkled from where their hands twined together. She brushes at it ineffectually, laughs again and again kicks her heels against the cupboards below her, and he is hard pressed to put the tray in the oven in a manner at all efficient, caught up as he is in the sight of her.

…

She does not raise her attention from her work when her hand slips into his own. Instead, she continues reading, her homework piled next to her on his couch, and in front of her on his coffee table, neat stacks of padds and filmplasts that she slowly works her way through. He laces their fingers together and does not smile any more than she does, though he can feel her joy, her weighty, full contentment, all the same.

…

“Thirteen. A friend’s basement- not his, we were at someone else’s house.”

“And?” he prompts when she does not continue, her eyes caught on a middle distance of memory.

Her face compresses in a grimace. “Wet. Oh, it was so terrible. I thought it was some horribly well kept secret that kissing was supposed to be like that and everyone just pretended to enjoy it.” Her laugh rings out. “Of course, then I learned better. Later, though.” 

The breeze stirs her hair where it lays loose over her shoulders. Her boots sit to the side of the bench they have chosen and now she tucks her feet up under herself, her shoulder nudging against his own with the movement. To lay his hand on the back of her neck is to remove it from her knee, but he does so anyway, so that he can draw her slightly closer still.

“That is fortuitous.” Her neck is all warm skin beneath his fingers, slim and long and she settles the length of her side against his own. “I was fourteen.”

She taps her fingers on his thigh, a quick patter that leaves imprints in his pant leg. “And?”

“Not wet,” he says so that she will smile. “Though similarly not particularly enjoyable.”

He kisses her only once there on their bench, the branches of the tree above them moving in the wind, their sides pressed together from knee to hip to her shoulder under his arm. Slowly he lets his fingers explore the knobs of her spine, twist into the fall of her hair. She lays her palm on his leg and they sit together as the afternoon slips past them, counted out in the rustle of leaves and the slide of dappled light over the ground.

…

Some time ago, she tucked her feet under his thigh. In doing so, she rested her back against the arm of the couch and now her eyes have closed, her head tipped to the side, exposing the line of her neck, the underside of her chin and the shape of her jaw. He shuts off the movie that they were ostensibly watching as the credits begin to scroll and encircles her ankle in one hand.

“M’awake.”

“Inaccurate.”

She smiles without opening her eyes. “I am.”

Without the movie playing, the beat of rain against his windows is more clearly discernible. For some time, he lets his thumb work over her ankle, up her calf and down again. An impossibility to touch her there, to allow his hand to explore, to have the night so quiet and soft around them while she watches his fingers play over her leg, up to her knee and then a long slide back to her foot.

She does not remove her feet from beneath his leg when she sits up, curling towards him. She kisses his cheek twice and then a third time with her hand laid upon his opposite cheek, her fingers precariously close to his meld points. Her thumb rubs over his chin and when she touches her forehead to his temple he leans into her, her nose bumping near to where her kiss was placed.

“Do you-“ He works his tongue through his mouth. “If you would like, you may sleep here. The rain. It is- You are tired.”

He cannot see her smile, but he can hear it.

In his bedroom, her back is a long bare line when she slips off her shirt. He does not watch as she replaces it with the one he lays out for her, not when her hair swings down near to her waist, nor when she half turns from him and unfastens her skirt, stepping out of it carefully, bending slightly to do so.

Typically, he would not retire for some time. Hours, likely, letting the night grow late as he buried himself in work or reading, his quarters silent and empty. He lifts the bedclothes and lays next to her, entirely too aware of himself, his arms, his legs, the knee that knocks into hers, the toes she touches to his ankle.

“Come here.” Incongruous to her invitation, she turns her back towards him and then nestles backwards into him, all soft skin and loose fabric draped over her. Her frame is so slight where she fits against his front. Tentatively, he lays his hand on her side, thumbs the dip of her waist.

“Here, put your-“ She raises herself up from her pillow, lifts that as well, and takes him by the wrist to stretch his arm out across the mattress before replacing both the pillow and her head upon it. “Like that.” 

He is nearly certain that circulation will cease to flow to his arm if he continues to lay on it like this, or that the weight of her head will cut off his blood flow. He flexes his fingers, already anticipating the tingle that will settle there. She readjusts herself, somehow tucking herself even further into his body. It is likely fortunate that his heart is not centered in his chest as a human’s is, as he is certain that if it were the beating of it would be perceivable to her. As it is, his side muffled against the bed, he can feel the beat of his pulse all the same, a patter that he is certain he cannot still, set on its quick tempo some time ago.

“Ok?” she asks.

He lets out a breath. It occurs to him that she can likely feel it against the back of her neck, even through the fall of her hair. He takes her hand in his and nods in answer, the silence of his rooms complete but for the soft shift of her breathing. He listens to it as she slips into sleep, her fingers a loose weight draped over his own.

In the morning she tastes of tea and toothpaste and he lets thought of the coming day drift past him for the loose circle of her arms around his neck, the shuffle of bare feet on his kitchen floor, the chance to begin a morning by drawing her closer as they kiss.


	5. Cafuné

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cafuné - the act of running your fingers through your lover's hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to fangirlconfessional for the beta!

“Relax,” he whispers into the quiet.

“I am relaxed.”

“We do not have to do this.”

“I want to.”  When her words alone do not prompt him onwards, her hand covers the back of his.  “Keep going.”

Her breath comes as a thready tremble.  In the shared dark in which they sit on his couch, the stillness that presses close and the silence of the moment, he knows without needing to look that her eyes are squeezed shut and her brow furrowed.  He slips his fingers from beneath hers to trace up her cheekbone to the crease between her eyebrows, pressing it smooth with his thumb.

He hears her smile, feels her shift slightly, the tension in her frame easing only in the nudge of her knee against his own. 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“I did not know you were an adept,” he whispers back but replaces his fingertips where they were resting, one to her temple, his thumb to her chin, a third spot next to her nose.  Her hip presses to his, the couch cushions a shared dip that slides them close to each other until their knees touch warm through the fabric of his pants and he thinks to turn on a lamp, to stop, to pause, to take one more moment before they are laid bare to each other.

When he touches her it is only lightly, a skating of his thoughts against hers, a bump of mind to mind that ends nearly as it begins, her eyes blown wide and her chest stilled on an inhale she does not take.  Cautious, slow, he traces the shape of her mind, feels along the long flow of her thoughts, attempts to hold himself back from the forward press he wants to take, an urge that is set aside as soon as it forms.  Still, there she is spread out for him and he for her, no part held back no matter how careful he is, how gently he attempts to keep at bay the urge to sink further into each other.  

The wide dark of her eyes does not give away the images that swim beneath his touch, the shared scraps of pictures that come to the surface and flit away again, the touch of his leg against hers and hers against his, how warm his hand is and how soft her cheek, the blink of her lashes that he can both see and feel as time winds down slow, drawn out in the beat of their hearts.  

There are no words for this but her question forms in an arc between them all the same, a twine thin curve of nervousness, of query, her curiosity over his opinion of what he has found and a seeking of reassurance even though she can find the confirmation in his own mind, shared with hers even as his opinion forms.

He does not know if the thought is his but he speaks it as an answer anyway, a hushed whisper that he knows in his mind as he knows it in her own.  

“You are beautiful,” he says as no more than a soft breath of words, ones that echoes loud between them and that edge of nerves that frays at her mind gives way to a narrow flow of joy, a cartwheel of delight that grows steadily brighter.

…

In the milky pale blue of dawn she rolls towards him, a rumple of blankets and a stretch of sleep warmed skin.  Her breathing is even and slow, her limbs a heavy, loose press over his own.  Under his cheek her hair lays messy, a tousle that it never is during the day but now tickles his throat.

She nestles closer when his hands find her back, the long dip of her spine.  The crease of the sheet beneath his hip, the car that passes by his window, the orange-yellow glow of streetlights through the window shades anchor him against the urge to blink as if it were possible for this to dissipate, for the newness of the press of bare skin to evaporate.

Were he to close his eyes, he is certain the temptation to replay their night would rise, as if trading the ability to see her pressed up against him would give way to a rush of memory so newly written into his mind, worked in deep with the cadence of their bodies, the pulsing beat of breath caught and held.  Of what she thinks, he does not know, her lips softly parted in her sleep, her features relaxed, as slack as the curve of her under the light weight of his sheets.  Once, her mouth moves soundless, a ghost of her lips on his collarbone, caught as she is in a dream.

…

The shape of her shoulder beneath her sweater should be commonplace by now, but the hours they have spent together in stiff uniforms, in the bland white room of his office, the formality and rigidity of their workday, has unravelled around him.  Illogical, he knows, but that does not stop the sweep of his eyes over the fall of her hair as she bends forward over her padd, nor how he permits himself the study of her fingers curled over her stylus.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks.

He clears his throat.  “The-“ On his desk rests a padd, one that he was ostensibly reading.  “-Current evolution of trends in sociolinguistic theory.”

Her smile is small, just a small lift of her lips.  He thinks of everything he knows of her now, the shape of her thoughts that rest behind the shine in her eyes.  “Really?”

“No,” he says and her smile grows.  

When she departs for her class, the interlude eked out of their day is ended with a press of her hand to his desk, the swish of the door.  Her fingertips leave half moons of fog on his work surface and he does not look at it as the afternoon marches on, the smudge of her touch repeatedly threatening to catch his eye.

…

“What are you thinking about?”

"That- ah-" He is likely holding too tight to her waist, a tension in his hands contradicted by the slow roll of her hips.  Above him, she smiles, watching him in return.  Her hair tumbles in an imperfect drape over her breasts and the bed shifts against its frame in a gentle knock of movement.  “That should be obvious.”

Surely she knows, does not need articulation, set out descriptions, the passage of thought from one to another carried through the space between them in the sounds and shapes of words- surely it is written out clear for her, etched into what she sees as she watches him.  Still, she smiles, waiting.  The pillow crumples under her hands when she tips forward, shifts her weight downwards, her lips a gentle brush against his parted mouth.  "Maybe I want to hear it."

Phosphenes burst behind his closed eyes and he cannot catch his breath, a shake to it that is shared with hers.  

Afterwards, she lies on his chest, her skin a tacky damp where it presses to his own, sharp flares of hazy impressions of thought sparking through him every place they touch.

…

In the modicum of privacy of the back of the mess hall, their chosen table tucked into the corner, her fingers find the nape of his neck.  She straightens his collar, smooths her thumb over the skin beneath and he imagines the possibility of leaning into her.  Instead, he continues to sit straight upright, his attention on the filmplast she has laid in front of him.  They do not need to be sitting in chairs next to each other, their shoulders do not have to touch as they read together, and he is certain his uniform was neater to begin with than how she leaves it, her fingers a light brush over the fabric that covers his back.  He watches the words as she reads them with him, pictures them lighting up in her mind as they circulate in his own, and focuses far more on the touch of her nails to the back of his neck, the light, brief, scratch of them to his scalp.

…

The wet suck of noise when she removes her mouth is only drowned out by the sharp wave of relatively cooler air.  Down the plane of his body, her eyes are appraising.  “What do you think?”

He licks at dry lips.  "It is enjoyable."

She sits back on her heels and gone is the weight of her bent over his thighs, the tickle of her hair on his stomach and the hand that stroked over the sides of his hips, curled around him.  Instead, she palms his thighs, frowns.  “You don’t like it?”

"I did not say that."

“You’re hardly enthusiastic."  She grabs the knob of his knee between thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger, shakes the joint lightly.  “Hey, I'm good at this."

"You are proficient in every pursuit to which you have ever applied yourself."

"Thanks," she says even as her eyes turn towards his ceiling.  She is smiling though and when she crawls forward to straddle him she continues to do so, her palms marking twin trail of warmth down his chest.  "What do you want?"

“What do you?”

"No, you have to tell me."  Her forefinger taps the center of his forehead.  "I can't read minds, you know."

Her fingers are light on his temple, his cheek, which she holds him by as she softly kisses him once and then again.  “I know.”

Her hand on his jaw tips his head back.  Against his neck, he can feel the shape of her expression tightening.  “Sorry.”

Gently, he tugs at her with a hand wrapped behind each of her elbows, and folds her down into him, her body a long press of skin against his own.  Foggy and indistinct, unfocused to a degree he can barely catch the thread of them, her thoughts seep through the contact, nothing more than a thick, heady push of what she is feeling that warms him straight through.  “It is no matter.” 

…

In the mornings, she stands barefoot in his kitchen, her nose dipping into her mug and his shirt a loose fall over her frame.

“So last night it was a quiz,” she reports.  “But all the questions were in binary.”

He sets bowls of oatmeal on his table.  “It must have been lengthy.”

“It was, except that halfway through we were suddenly taking a flight sim practicum, but instead of shuttles we had these huge birds to ride and had to tell them where to go.”

“Perhaps that would explain all of the talking.”

She lowers her mug.  “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“Debatable.”

“I don’t.”

“To be fair, you were not particularly eloquent,” he says and dodges the fingers she extends towards his arm in a poke.

At the table, she pulls her hair back when it threatens to slip into her breakfast, a push of it behind her shoulder, despite how it slips forward again immediately.  “Do you ever dream?”

Carefully, he tucks it back for her, traces over the curve of her ear, slips the lock of hair there and leaves it for a moment secured.  “No.”

“Never?”

Her hair falls forward again and again he pushes his fingers into it, plays over the spot behind her ear with his touch, the back of her head that he gently cups.  Beneath his palm her mind hums, a certainty even though like this he cannot feel it.  Still, all the same her thoughts churn endless, a long stream of consciousness that is conveyed only in the soft blink of her eyes, how she leans into his touch.  “Not like you do.”  

Over the steam that curls up from their bowls, she leans towards him for a kiss, soft and slow in the quiet of early morning.

…

"There are other ways in which to communicate."  With both hands he smooths his hair, barely resisting the urge to rub his fingers over his scalp.  Her heel prods his shoulder blade in the only answer she gives him besides the heave of her stomach, the limp hand that falls from the back of his head to his shoulder.

"Fuck."  Her hand covers her face, drags down to pinch her lips in her palm as she stares wide eyed and unfocused at the ceiling.  Her skin is sweat slick and dappled with afternoon light.  "Spock.  Goddamn."

Her leg lays heavy over his shoulder, a line of weight down his back.  "Profanity is hardly what I meant."

It should be a matter of biology, of physical stimulus, the firing of nerves and synapses.  Easily understood, qualified, deciphered.  But nowhere in the progression of action and reaction is there left room for the mess of the tangle of limbs, the smile that lights her face, how she pats at the back of his neck, how she laughs, the muscles in her stomach clenching, her throat a long bob of flowing sound.  "Do that again."

"Please," he prompts as he bends down to her again, batting her hands away when she again threatens to thread her fingers tight into his hair.  He holds her hands in his own, presses them to the bed and lets flow into him the loose, unmoored and free floating tenor of sensation that sings hot in her blood, in his, passed between his fingers twined with hers, his body humming with the rush of her delight.

…

"Is water-" She pauses, her hands filled with suds, her head tipped to the side.  Water streaks her cheeks, falls from her chin, flows downward between her breasts, a transparent glide over them.  "Conductive?"

He blinks.  "Conductive?" 

"For telepathy."

“Close your eyes.”  He turns her, a hand on each shoulder, the spray of the shower dancing droplets of soap onto his chest as lather courses from her hair in thick white froth, coats his feet and swirls down the drain.  "Water does not aid transference, no."

"I guess there's not exactly an abundance of it on Vulcan.”

Carefully, he squeezes a stream of water from her hair.  "Hardly."

When he is finished, she leans back against him.  Before them both she holds out her hand, wrinkled and waterlogged, and pulls up one of his, her fingers encircling his wrist.  “They look the same.”

“Inaccurate.”  He lays his palm over the flat of her stomach, folds her hand into his own.  “Yours are entirely smaller.”

Her neck tastes of water and the faint bite of soap.  The tickle of her amusement skates over his fingers, changes and sharpens to a pinprick point of a flare when his other hand slides downwards.  Briefly, he considers his bed, the trail of wet they would leave in messy footprints across the bathroom floor, the damp of sheets, and holds her to him where they are, the hitch in her breath drowned out in the billows of steam.

…

Cadet McLaren slides a spoon across the table to him.  She was in his Interspecies Ethics seminar the previous spring, in which she earned respectable marks and wrote a final paper on twenty first century morphological trends.  

He is not certain that the tables in the mess hall are cleaned as often as they should be.  

Beside him, Nyota laughs at a remark Cadet Hannity has made and her shoulder bumps into his own.  He doubts the action is particularly fueled by any incoordination her alcohol consumption over the evening may have left her with, though the attention it draws from her friends is certainly heightened in a way it is not during the workday, a lack of inhibition in how they watch them that seems spurred by the late hour, the liminality of the stretch of the deep night.  Again, he thinks he might not have come to meet them all, might be in his quarters now, surrounded by the familiar silence and stillness.  Carefully, he takes the spoon by the handle and turns to the rapidly melting bowl of ice cream, the one that Nyota has slowly deconstructed with all of the patience lacking from her companions.

Their forbearance does not outlast the solidity of Nyota’s dessert and they leave in a scrape of chairs and friendly waves that he hardly receives after his lectures but now are bestowed alongside smiles and promises to see Nyota in the morning.

In the quiet that falls, Nyota drags her spoon through the pool of chocolate sauce.  “What happens if you have some?”

“I may find myself in the cafeteria past midnight eating high caloric food of questionable nutritional quality.”

Her smile is easy and loose, her eyes a bright crinkle of delight.  “Funny, Spock.”

Where the fall of her hair does not cover, the cut of her shirt exposes her clavicle and lower.  The fabric moves with each of her breaths and when she shifts forward he can clearly make out the curve of her bra.

"How you doing there, Commander?"  

She's still smiling, the spoon held between her lips.

“You are nearly finished,” he says at length.

“I am.”  She leans backwards in a stretch, her raised arms pull her shirt against the length her torso, revealing a strip of skin just above the waistband of her skirt.  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Ideally, yes,” he says as if that were possible, the span of space between them bridged by the span of her thoughts against his.

"Good, I want some more too."

When she returns, her toe travels around his ankle, a slow trace that proves consuming the contents of the bowl nearly a futile endeavor.  A promise is held in her eyes, the purse of her lips around her spoon, the finger she draws down his own.

…

The minute in which they were supposed to arise ticks past them, silenced and ushered away in the soft smack of his mouth on her neck, the nails she scratches over the backs of his arms.

“We have to get up,” she says to the ceiling and he nods, kicks the sheet back, pulls the long line of her flush against him.

“We do,” he confirms into the dip of her collarbone.  He takes the time to pause there, the beat of her heart quick beneath bone and skin.

Beyond the edge of his mattress the day waits and delaying does not push back the fact of it, no matter how her foot slides over his calf, the shape of her thigh in his palm.  Still, they sit up only slowly and do not immediately stand, her fingers carding through the mess of her hair, his hands searching for the edge of the sheet that was long kicked back.

He stops his hunt when her palms smooth over his back.  “You-“ Her yawn is a press of warm air over his shoulder blade “-Have a late meeting tonight, right?”

When her arms slide around him, he can cover both of her hands in the flat of his palm and he does, cupping her grip on him against his chest.  “Yes.”

“Hmmm.”  Her forehead tips against his spine.  “What else?”

Were it logical, he might allow himself the wish that the day were not to occur, that he would once again lay down with her, push the twisted blankets to the floor and press her hands across his skin.  “Lectures.  Two of them.”

“And office hours,” she tells him.  He nods and her arms around him tighten.  “I’m going to be thinking about you all day anyway.  It’s nice to actually know what you’re up to.”

They have time.  Not enough, but some.  He finds her knee with his hand, the circle of her arms warm around his shoulders.  Under his fingers with her palms still pressed to his chest he cannot actually perceive her thoughts with any clarity but the slow, quiet stream of her happiness, the verge of anticipation of the coming day, reaches him all the same.  “Likewise.”

…

"Spock."

His hands still.  He pulls his chin up.  "Yes?"

Her toes push into his knee.  "You are a million miles away."

"Incorrect," he says and resumes his ministrations on her other foot, the one that he holds in his lap, her ankle a slim weight on his thigh.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"I was-" He shakes his head, kneads the ball of her foot.  "It is inconsequential."

"I'll up it to a nickel.  Best offer."

"Do you truly have old Terran currency?"

"All Terran currency is old."  Her arms cross over her stomach.  "Don't change the subject."

"You raised it."

Her toes flex against his palm.  "Are feet telepathic?"

In his hands, her foot is impossibly small.  He pushes his thumb into the spot just below the arch.  "Not especially."

"Are you sure?"  He squeezes her toes, nods.  "Cause I was kind of picking up on the fact that you were going to give me a back rub, next."

"Is that so?"

"Yep."

His hand on her ankle, he pulls her towards him, her back slipping down the cushion she long ago propped against the arm of the couch.  "You are entirely certain those were my subsequent intentions?"

"It's logical."

She is all knees and elbows when she climbs over him, a slip of hair on his face, her smile pressed to his mouth as they kiss and then kiss again.  He allows himself the indulgence of the idea that her hands framing his cheeks could possibly create a bridge between them, could arc with the push of her thoughts and the nudge of her mind against his own instead of soft fingertips and her thumb rubbing over his jaw.

He clears his throat.  "That first day."  Her neck is a long column to kiss.  When he pulls her shirt aside, she tips her head for him, baring her throat, the soft underside of her jaw.  There, he pushes his face, breathes her in.  "When you came to my class."  In his hair, her hands still. "You were early."

She is featherlight on his lap, her body caught paused above his.  "I was."

"That is what I was thinking about."

"Really?"

Gently, he presses his mouth beneath her ear.  "That will be five cents, I believe."

Her forehead against his, her nose a line on his own, she holds him still, her fingers splayed on his cheeks.  Her touch is nothing more than soft and warm and does not reach beyond the gentle stroke of her thumb on his chin, the fingertip that rests near to his eye.  

“I think,” she whispers, soft enough he can barely hear her, “I think that even then I was excited for what was coming.”

Impossible, he could tell her.  Illogical.  Unfeasible and unreasonable.  Instead he lets her hold him, her fingers light and her face pressed to his as if their thoughts could blend like that, could spill together in a long tumble towards each other.


	6. Cwtch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cwtch - Welsh word for an affectionate hug. There's no literal English translation, but its nearest equivalent is "safe place". So if you give someone a cwtch, you're giving them a "safe place".

What begins as a hand on the back of his chair, her arm stretched behind him and her body half turned towards his no matter which of her friends she speaks to, turns as the night progresses and the others around the table begin to depart into her fingers laying on the back of his neck, the creep of her hand slow but continual so that by the time that it is only them and her roommate remaining, Nyota’s hand has delved beneath the collar of his sweater to lay light against his skin. 

That nobody has given her touch on him any particular notice that he can discern leads him to draw the conclusion that this is considered normal. Ordinary. Habitual perhaps between Terran couples. Of course, he is not human, but it does not follow that he wishes her to remove her hand.

“I’m going to bed,” Gaila announces, failing to raise either of the hands she places upon the table to cover her yawn. 

If he wished to, Spock could count her molars. He sips from his drink, the ice cubes noticeably smaller and the taste rather diluted from when it was first served. 

“You two have a good night,” Gaila says, departing with a wave and a squeak of her chair against the floor. 

Still in her chair next to him, Nyota’s fingers trace over his skin in a way so slow and idle that he cannot believe she is aware of the motion. So this too must be standard, the mindless track of her touch on him, her roommate’s assumption Nyota would not be accompanying her to their dorm room, the casualness of it all. Nonchalant. Blasé, even. 

His neck pricks where her fingers move, her touch leaving tracks of imprints he is sure will not fade even when she removes her hand from him.

She smiles at him, her expression soft and as warm as fingers are. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Of course.”

He receives a kiss on his temple. “Not ‘of course’, you would rather be holed up reading technical specs, and here you are.” Another kiss. “You are the best.”

“I did not know that accompanying you tonight was the only qualification,” he says and wonders if he will be kissed a third time. He is, and this time she lingers near to him.

“Yes?” he asks when for some time she has just watched him, her eyes moving over his face and her lips parted as if she might speak, her entire manner so expectant that he cannot help but anticipate what it is that she is preparing to tell him.

Her smile comes as she ducks her face away from his. “Sorry, I just-“ She shakes her head and then is standing, her hand slipping from beneath his shirt. “Ready to go?”

They walk to his quarters with their fingers laced, their shoulders brushing together, and their eyes meeting and parting and meeting again. Their pace is slow and he finds that despite the promise of privacy that awaits them, he is in no particular hurry to speed the evening along, instead content to let it stretch out in front of them as the sidewalk does, a slow meander through the night. 

Once, he considers asking her what she was intending to say but does not, his question stilled and quieted at the expression of calm on her face and, as she notices him watching, the soft smile she gives him, her eyes bright and happy.

…

The break room door opens directly to an expanse of bare hallway, no office nor lecture hall nor seminar room directly across from it. In the absence of other students or instructors in the room with them and with the lack of footsteps approaching, she takes the tea he has prepared for her. There, before she turns towards the door she pauses, her attention caught on his, her eyes bright as she looks between her tea and himself, and he waits for the ritual of a comment- a thank you, an entreaty for an enjoyable afternoon, a declaration of their intent to see each other after work- but instead she reaches out quickly, her hand finding and squeezing his elbow, so brief as if it might not have happened at all.

The indent left in his jacket remains, and so too does the echo of her touch, left there for the remainder of the workday long after his own mug is empty.

…

For the second time in as many scenes, he shakes his head. “There are a number of continuity error in this plot.”

Her search for unpopped kernels of corn comes to a pause, her hand buried in the bowl. “Hush, you.”

“Surely, the secondary characters are capable of-“ He has to lean into her to allow her to sling her arm over his shoulder and he has to acquiesce to the piece of popcorn she presses to his mouth to allow her attempt to silence him thusly to be successful, both of which he does, the tips of her fingers as slick with salt and butter as is the kernel he eats. She does not release him and he does not continue speaking, not during the next scene or the one after, her hand a light weight over his chest and her arm a circle around his shoulder. 

Only once does she shift, and then it is to draw him nearer. At his ear, her mouth moves, but when he twists to look at her, to bend into her to hear what it is that she has said, she has another handful of popcorn she is eating, her eyes on the movie.

…

“We can share,” she offers. 

If she holds it, the edge of the umbrella knocks into his forehead. If he does, rain coats her arm. Both situations make her laugh, their fingers a wet tangle on the handle as they attempt to not only navigate the appropriate height but also a path around the puddles that will leave all four of their shoes dry.

“Clearly, a flaw in the design,” he finally states.

“Clearly.” 

The damp of the air clings to her hair, moistens the collar of her jacket when they pause together at the place where their walk across campus diverges. He tugs the collar higher on her neck, touches his knuckle to her chin.

“Stay dry,” he says, an irrational Terran platitude so often bandied about on days like this one.

Again, she laughs. “Logical.” 

The track of her eyes sweep out across the quad and he watches the quick dart of her gaze, takes in the softness at the corner of her mouth, the slight tip of her chin.

Softly, she says, “I-” The breath she takes is quick, her words cut off before she begins again. Her head shakes and she gives him a fast smile, one that comes and then fades again so quickly that he is not certain of its purpose, gone as it is before he can begin to guess. 

When she does finally speak, her tone is different, lighter. “It’s nice, isn’t it. Pretty, sort of.” 

She shrugs and the umbrella rises with the motion, her attention on the rain that drips and splatters before them.

When her eyes meet his, he nods, though if she has more that she was intending to add to her point, it does not come, and if she was planning to return to to what she originally did not say, she does not, not as they stay paused there a moment longer, their arms brushing together and the beat of rain soft on the umbrella above them.

…

In the morning, he wakes to a weight on his back. Toes rest on his calf, a knee presses to the back of his own and Nyota’s hand folds clumsily closed over his forearm when he attempts to shift. 

For some time, he simply contemplates his pillow, the shine of dawn on the walls of his bedroom, the warm press of her.

“I’m getting up,” she finally tells him, her voice a soft scratch and her nose nudging his spine.

“Apparently,” he says and her arm drops to his waist, holds him there as if he were about to stand.

Later, when the patches of light have made a slow progression across the wall, her finger taps his stomach. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

“I, um,” she begins and swallows and then pauses long enough that he nearly lifts his cheek from the pillow to turn towards her. “I- do you want breakfast?”

“Now?” She does not answer, only stretches, her body drawing into a taught line behind his and then before he can move she does, already sitting up with the sheet pushed down to her waist. “Do you not wish to go back to sleep?”

She does, often. Always, nearly. Their mornings are so often counted out in the time she ekes out curled in the center of his bed, the soft sounds of her even breathing as the day slowly begins around them. Now, though, she has her feet on the floor and her back to him, a length of bare skin that is not particularly availing of answers.

She stills in her search of the floor for her clothing when he lays his hand on her waist. “If you are hungry, I will make you something.”

“No, no, you’re always-“ Her head shakes and then she is standing. “You always make breakfast. You’re too nice to me, I’ll cook this time.”

Her hand catches his and she kneels on the bed long enough to give him a kiss before she is gone, leaving him watching the empty doorway and listening to the sounds of her in his kitchen.

“Niceness does not logically have an upper limit,” he calls out to her, only to hear the opening of a cupboard in response.

When he joins her, she already has a canister of flour and a glass of replicated milk on the counter. “I know. I just-“ She opens two drawers and then a third until she finds a measuring cup. “You always do so much for me. So.”

“So?” he asks.

“So.” She measures out a cup of flour, a fine line of it falling onto the counter. She bites her upper lip, wipes it away with her thumb. “You make me really happy.”

She brushes her fingers together to clean them of flour, which is ineffectual at best, even more so when she moves moves the measuring cup towards an awaiting bowl and even more flour finds its way onto the countertop. 

When he has still not spoken, her eyes dart up to his and twice she blinks.

“I see.”

“So, pancakes.” She wipes the flour into her palm, which she then brushes off into the sink, her movements quick. “Which I hope you like.”

“Logically, if you wished to return the favor of other times I have made you meals, I might have suggested remaining in bed,” he finally tells her and while she does not turn from the pan she has placed on the stove, batter spreading out in it in a neat circle, he can see the curve of her cheek as she smiles.

…

She pulls his hand forward from where it rests on her arm, his wrist balanced on her shoulder and her fingers laced through his. She shifts into him, nudging the sides of their bodies together and despite how uncomfortable the angle of her arm must be, holding his hand with her arm bent backwards like that, she does not let go. Instead she remains there, tucked into him while the bus they are waiting for continues to not arrive, their hands twined together and more than once her face lifting towards his own, a warmth in her expression that echoes the one that is shared between the touch of their fingers.

…

“I’m fine,” she says into his chest.

“I am aware.”

“It’s a weekend.” She pushes her face further into his jacket. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Beneath his palms, her back rises on the breath she takes, one that she expels in a warm rush of air into his shoulder.

“I believe it is standard procedure to wish you good luck.”

“Illogical, too,” she says so that he does not have to. Against him, her shoulders straighten from the slump they fell into when she folded herself into him. Still, she does not immediately move away, only shifts enough they can look at each other. “It’s not even that hard of a training. I’ll be fine.”

“As we established,” he says and she nods and smiles and begins to step backwards only to pause, her hands spread warm on his chest. 

She remains motionless there, her lips parted and her eyes dark and clear and fixed on him with a stillness that hangs still in the air between them until she draws in a breath. But when she speaks, all that she says is, “It’s only two days.” 

She grimaces and tugs at his jacket and he cannot help but find that he expected her tone to be far from the lightness that it carries, what with how she watched him.

Carefully, he says, “It is.”

Her smile twists at the corner of her mouth. “I’m really going to miss you.”

She hugs him again, hard, and then is picking up her bag and smoothing her uniform and giving him a small wave and then the distance between them is growing with each step she takes, the moments in which she was with him already fading into a past that will not soon enough be replaced with a future in which she has returned.

“Likewise,” he calls before she has gone too far.

Two days, he thinks, though repeating her platitude to himself is hardly helpful.

…

“You’re tired?”

“No.” He settles the blankets over himself as she rolls towards him. “Regardless, that is my pillow.”

“Too bad,” she says but shifts back enough to make room for him to lay next to her. With her so close, he kisses her once and then again, their lips brushing together over and over as she lets out a gentle, soft noise from the back of her throat.

“You are tired,” he tells her when the blink of her eyes comes slowly. Gently, he pulls the edge of the sheet up to her shoulder even though as soon as she falls asleep, she will kick it off.

“Maybe,” she says through a yawn into pillow. Softly, she smiles at him, her expression so gentle that he cannot help but touch the back of his finger to her cheek.

When she fits herself into him, their knees bump and there is not room for his arm between them and he can no longer see the shine in her eyes with her head tucked against his chest, nor hear the words she murmurs into his shirt.

“Pardon?”

She shakes her head and he closes his hand over the fall of her hair, cups the back of her head and attempts to look at her, though when he shifts backwards to do so, she simply moves with him.

“Nyota?” he asks and again when she speaks, it is into his shirt. “You will have to speak louder.”

She does and this time he hears. His entire body stills and then immediately flushes warm. 

He swallows, though his mouth is dry. 

It is then that she raises her head. “You’re smiling.”

He registers that his hand begins to move across her back though he is certain he is not as in control over its motion as he ought to be. “I am not.”

“You really, really are.”

“You should improve your enunciation.”

“I love you,” she says again, clearly this time, and she is smiling too as she pulls him into her, her arms a tight circle around him, his grip on her in turn holding them tight together.

…

When she enters his apartment, he beckons her with both hands. She hangs her coat quickly and walks to him. When she steps into his chest, he folds his arms over her back and holds her close. Her arms encircle his waist and she leans her weight into him as he passes his hand up her back and down again, over and over until her breathing evens and slows.

“What is it?” she asks so soft that he has to bend down to her to hear.

He speaks into her hair, where he has pressed his face. “I am simply glad that you are here.”


	7. Ya’aburnee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya’aburnee - literally meaning ‘you bury me’; A declaration of love, from one person to another, indicting how difficult it would be to live without them

On his sink rests her toothbrush. He takes a second cup from the cupboard, places it within, and sets it next to the glass he keeps for himself in the bathroom. A number of hairpins sit on the shelf next to his razor, and to them he adds two hair ties that have migrated to the coffee table. As for her cosmetics, he does not attempt to instill any order and instead removes his comb from the section of the counter she has seen fit to spread them upon and stores it in the cupboard.

She leaves her clothes neatly folded on his dresser, which is ideal as they are not then tripping hazards on the floor, but perhaps not the best placement for them as he routinely has, in the past, used that space for his insignia that he unpins from his uniform each night, as well as the box in which he stores his incense for meditation. He could move those items to his bedside table, though lately that space has been occupied by a rotating selection of Nyota’s reading before bed as well as the glass of water she keeps there most nights.

He needs a second nightstand. Before, one was adequate. Now, it is insufficient. Her comm charger routinely rests on the floor next to the other side of the bed and more nights than not, discarded clothing falls on top, leaving her to search through yesterday’s shirts and undergarments when she receives an early morning missive from a friend or classmate.

She could charge her comm on his desk, though with the addition of her padds and class materials to his own work, the surface is often overburdened and threatens disorganization most days. His table is clear, but only because they habitually remove items from it in order to make space for two plates and the accompanying cutlery for their meals. 

His apartment is not untidy, simply… more full. Even his couch bears signs of her presence, the long sleeved shirt she wore the night before draped neatly over the arm, as is usual when the heat of his quarters becomes too much for her. He cannot pretend he overly minds.

Truly, only his closet is unaffected, his uniforms hanging within undisturbed by the addition of her to his life. In fact, there is more than enough space in there for other items as well, as the size of his quarters has always been more than ample for needs as simple as his. 

It only takes him a moment to move the shirts he has folded in the second drawer of his dresser to the top shelf of the closet, and replace his clothing with her own. Once he has done so, he again considers the room, replacing the container of intense where it used to sit from where it had been shuffled to the side. Really, there is a substantial amount of space on the surface, certainly enough for the remainder of his meditation supplies, the candle he keeps on a small stand and its holder. He adds them to his dresser, stands there for a moment considering the room, and then gathers Nyota’s padds onto the bed, sets her glass on the floor, and picks up the nightstand table that was beneath those objects and carries it to the other side of the bed, rearranging her comm charger on top of it once it is in place, and adding her other belongings. The meditation stand he moves to the newly empty space and stands in the center of the room, examining the changes.

“If you’re going to be moving heavy objects in your bedroom, can I lobby for you doing it shirtless?”

He turns. “Hello.”

In two quick strides, her hands are on his waist, tugging at his shirt. “I’m serious, you know.”

“Are you.”

“Uh huh.” Her teeth catch her tongue. “I’ll put in a formal request, even.”

“Your suggestion is duly noted,” he says and kisses her and then she is setting her bag on the floor and toeing her boots off and he takes the opportunity to simply watch as she moves through the room, pausing to remove her earrings and again to unpin her hair.

She stops all together when she has divested herself of her uniform and turns to the more comfortable garments she habitually wears in the evening.

“Where are my clothes?”

He sits on the edge of the bed. “It is unfortunate that you cannot find them.”

“Spock.”

“Truly regrettable.”

“You’re a riot.”

He nods towards the dresser, though that does not stop him from adding, “Given your inability to locate them, the logical choice would be to-“

“-Really?” she asks, both hands hooked over the edge of the drawer as she turns from the bureau to him and back again.

“-Leave them off.” He smooths his hands down his thighs. “Yes.” When she just continues staring down at the drawer, he adds, “It was logical.”

She pushes the drawer shut and crosses to him, not hesitating before placing a knee on either side of his hips. Astride him, her palms press to his chest until he lays back. “Was it?”

“Yes,” he says again.

“I hear you’re an expert in that.”

To be one is to begin a path toward kohlinhar that Spock, now mostly considering kissing her again, is not overly inclined towards contemplating. So he only says, “It was the most suitable decision.”

“I have work to do,” she tells him but catches his wrists in her hands all the same and bends down to him, her hair a whisper against his cheek.

The drawer is left open for some time.

…

Logically, she can acquire it for herself. She walks by the bookstore often enough that she too will likely notice the author’s name on the cover as he did and she is entirely capable of deciding to purchase it, should she wish to. There is no need for him to do so in her stead and really, given her schedule, the demands on her time, and the priority she assigns to her professional pursuits, leisure reading material is not a rational addition.

Still, he holds the book. The shelf from which he picked it up bears a conspicuous gap between the other volumes.

“Have you started that?”

“Pardon?”

The shopkeeper points her chin to the book. “That’s the second in the series. Have you read the first one?”

He looks down at the book in his hand. “I have.”

“I think they keep getting better,” she says.

Logical, perhaps, and this is enough to induce him to lay the book on the counter and reach for his credit chip.

“When will I have a night free of homework?” Nyota asks that evening as she drops her bag onto a chair at his table.

“Upon your graduation.” He finds himself pausing before he collects himself to extend the book to her. “This is for you.”

Her lips open over a word that does not come, the only sound escaping her a short exhale. Her expression shifts into one of curiosity and then something else entirely, her eyebrows rising as she flicks through the first pages.

“I thought you would enjoy it,” he says by way of explanation though one is not required. Still, he has to staunch the urge to continue to offer clarification, his mouth pressing closed. Surely she can extrapolate that upon seeing it he thought immediately of her, that it is likely impossible that anything else could have occurred with the space she occupies in his thoughts, a churning, endless thread of her coursing through his mind, louder somehow when they are apart.

“You got me this?” she asks.

“I did,” he says even though this too is also clear, the evidence held in her hands.

Her eyes are bright when they meet his. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“I’m not going to have time to read it for the next ten years,” she says as if she has not already opened the cover and flipped past the title page and table of contents, smoothing the book open to the beginning of the first chapter.

“Unfortunate.”

“Hmm,” she says as she turns a page.

He makes them mugs of tea. Later, he finds the book on her nightstand.

…

“You may not place your rook there,” he says. She frowns, her eyes tightening. “It is against the rules.”

“Motion to change the rules.”

He does not smile. “Denied.”

She holds up a finger. “Don’t tell me where to put it.”

“I was not intending to,” he says and she shakes her head at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. 

With her foot propped up on her chair, she is able to rest her chin on her knee. “This game is going to take me forever to learn.”

So often they are on their way to classes, to meetings and office hours and the obligations that fill their weeks, their time together scheduled in between other tasks, carved out in minutes that at best stretch to hours. “We have all day,” he says.

She sighs. “I wish.”

He does not argue. He does not want to, not when she is so technically correct. They have part of the day. Now and the next hour and maybe the one after, but her school bag awaits her and he well knows that this capitulation to relaxation comes at the cost of later hours spent bent over her padd.

“Not there, either,” he says.

She both smiles and grimaces. “Don’t tell me,” she says again.

“I will not.” It will take longer this way, if she hunts across the tiers of the board for where to place her piece. Minutes only, but it is more time together all the same.

…

“You’re going to make me fall asleep,” she says.

He does not cease threading his fingers through her hair, nor does he halt the drift of his other hand down the line of her bare back. “You are tired.”

“Hmm. I am,” she says and presses closer when he finds the dip of her spine, fingertips exploring its length. Against his neck, she yawns, her body tightening with the force of it. Her sigh, when she pushes it out, washes over his collarbone. “I have work to do.”

“Now?” he asks. He does not release her. “It is the weekend.”

“Not all of us can lay around in bed all afternoon,” she says but she does not move except to nestle closer, her toes trailing over his ankle.

Soon, she will get up. Her padds sit on his coffee table, her stylus waiting next to them, and she will spend the evening and long into the night on his couch with her reading. He combs through the hair that falls over her shoulder, palms the curve of her waist.

“Rest, first,” he says.

“Five minutes,” she says but she stays longer than that, tucked into him, and longer still when he rolls her over and finds her neck, her ear, her chin, with his mouth.

“Stay,” he whispers, with the workweek stretching before them, with early mornings and too short nights, hours packed together, commitments unavailing, strict and rigid with their needs. Her answer is a quiet inhale when he lifts her leg and curves it over his waist, a returned kiss when he draws her hands above her head, palms pressing her wrists into the mattress as a sound catches in her throat. 

…

On his coffee table rests a Cardassian dictionary, and on the arm of the couch balances a padd of Klingon semiotics. Scattered across his coffee table are the filmplasts Nyota sorts through, each with handwritten Andorian covering their surface, and on his table he retrieves a note in Bajoran and a second in Tellarite. 

“This is crossed out rather vehemently,” he says, examining the former.

“I’m-“ Her hands in her hair, she holds it back from her face, her expression tight. “I’m trying to figure out how all these words fit together.” 

“Perhaps spreading out additional materials into the adjacent apartments in this building will aid in developing your argument.”

With a slump that carries through her whole body, her hands drop loose into her lap. “It’s a mess. I’m sorry.”

“That is not-“ Quickly, he reaches her, only a few steps needed to close the distance. “That is not what I meant.”

Her head dips. 

“Take a break,” he says.

But she shakes her head, “I can’t.”

“Nyota…” When he lays his hand over her hair, she leans into him. “Fatigue generally does not facilitate advanced thinking.”

“I need to finish this.”

“There is tomorrow.”

She turns her face into his stomach. “I have more work to do tomorrow.”

The life of a cadet. He kneads the base of her neck. “I still recommend rest.”

“I can’t,” she says again, her voice muffled. 

“Why?”

“If I tell you, you’ll argue with me.” She leans back enough to look up at him. “I know you too well. You will.”

She does know him well. Which was not always the case and now so very fortunately is.

He touches his knuckle to her cheek. “What is it?”

She closes her eyes. Then she says, “I want to be able to be with you. Stay with you, I mean.”

“Why would you not?”

“Spock,” she says. “Your career… you’ll be able to write your own ticket. Are able to, now. And I want… I want to go with you.”

He blinks. Her shoulders are drawn tight beneath his hand. “I would not go anywhere - deploy - without you.”

“See? Spock, that’s-”

“-It would be illogical,” he says before she can continue.

“Spock.”

“I am serious,” he says. “And quite certain.”

She is watching him. Not smiling and clearly not convinced. Nyota is better with words than he will ever be.

“I have you in my life now,” he says in an attempt to explain. To tell her - to speak aloud what she means to him - is impossible. It is simpler, and easier for him, to rest his fingers to her cheek and only then does she slowly nod. “And I intend for that not to change.”

Her eyes grow wet. He touches his thumb to the corner of her lashes.

“Promise?” she asks.

He takes her hand in his. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!


End file.
